


Something’s haunting tonight

by kiyo_k



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Comedy, F/M, Horror, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-06-19 06:12:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 24,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15504060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyo_k/pseuds/kiyo_k
Summary: Eames is a reality show producer with a penchant for filming the occult and a predisposition to attract both human and ghosts alike. Arthur is the consultant he hired for his show.





	1. Chapter 1

The premises of the show was as silly sounding as its name, Arthur thought as he flipped through the binder offered to him by a staff member on set. Still, his was a business that relied predominantly on word-of-mouth, and him showing up on television would have been the best endorsement of his expertise. A marketing gimmick too hot to ignore. After all nothing screams credibility than to be cast on cable, and as a consultant no less. Or at least, that’s the bar these days in the era of fake news.

The pay for the gig was of course the cherry on top. But the potential pool of clientele the gig will draw? The gateway to celebrities - albeit D-listed for now (he’d always believed in starting small)? That’s the trophy Arthur had got his eyes on. Already in his mind, he could envision the ka- ching sound of money. Just one season, and he’d be well set for expanding his clientele beyond the current repertoire of businessmen and women.

So long as he kept to the plan, his mind added.

That stray little thought had him reflexively lowering his eyes to the profile picture in the file, of plush lip and stubbled chin, and then back up at the man across the table, standing right in front of the whiteboard.

The producer, Mr Eames-no-first-name, had been an up and coming Vlogger with a penchant for creating content on subjects pertaining to the occult, the supernatural and sometimes the downright weird. What had started out as a hobby, turned occupational when a self produced video series of him roaming the Nepalese and Tibetan highlands searching for the Yeti hit three million subscribers. Riding on the coat tails of his previous success, he then launched a successful Kickstarter campaign which helped funded his next road road, traipsing across the States searching and interviewing people who’d thought they have found evidences of extraterrestrial life.

The rest then, as they said, was history.

And Eames, now an up and coming reality show producer, had just clinched his next big break, a successful pitch with the honchos of a pretty prominent cable network, and correspondingly, a buck load of cash to burn for his next project - Something’s Haunting Tonight. Hosted by breakout Vlogger, Dahlia Kim, whose model-like good looks had propelled her to B-list stardom within two years since her debut, the show would focus solely on paranormal activities. That meant, haunted mansion, haunted amusement park, haunted highways… Basically anywhere with reported paranormal sightings.

Arthur himself thought the concept trite and boring, but the recent trending of Buzzfeed Unsolved appeared to have convinced network executives of the market potential for a reality show on ghost hunting. However, as he observed, the animated gestures of Mr Eames, wholly engaged in the kick-off meeting with his team, it became absolutely clear what, or more likely who, had the script sold.

Least to say, Eames was not someone Arthur had been expecting to meet. The term ex-Vlogger had him conjuring an image of torn jeans, single-coloured T-shirt and youthful, baby looking Gen Z. Not a man in his early thirties, dressed in tapered linen pant and a splayed collar shirt, with a muscular build that could not have developed from a sedentary life of sitting behind a camera. And not forgetting the British accent to boot. The three million subscribers so very keenly interested in a fruitless journey to rediscover the Yeti, now made so much more sense.

But it wasn’t the suave looks that truly captivated Arthur’s attention. It was, as innocuous as they had been, the stack of photographs currently held in Eames’ hand. Or _the sources,_ as they had taken to calling them - a collection of reported sightings and photographs taken of apparitions across the Western coast.

For the past half hour, the production team had been trying to sieve out the genuine from the phonies, or at least those that looked real enough to warrant a dedicated one-hour segment. The debate had been fierce, but eventually Eames himself had been the one who handpicked and narrowed down the stack to the remaining handful in his hand.

And it was simply too much of a coincidence.

“So what do you think of these, Mr Consultant?” Eames  turned to him suddenly with a jaunty grin as he laid out the selected photos before Arthur. “I have been told you are an expert in this field.”

It was doubtlessly a test, Arthur thought. Rules of the business and all that. He was well aware of how he’d look, even with his sharp suit and expensive shoes - too youthful looking to be considered reliable. But his business already had him circling around influential men and women all day, and a producer like Eames was hardly worth batting an eyelash for. “Arthur Rivers,” he said dryly, offering Eames his card. Their handshake, he had made sure of it, was firm, the first step to establishing authority.  

“Rivers? You wouldn’t have been of English descent would you?”

“Chinese actually,” Arthur said without missing a beat, noting Eames surprised expression as the man did a double take and stepped back for a better look at him. Head to the toe. Then all the way up again, this time slower, as if the he was appreciating the view. “We’ve been around for a few generations. Someone got annoyed with the pronunciation mistake everyone around him’s been making, and anglicized his name. That’s how we ended up with Rivers.” A dollop of dry, sarcastic wit to engage the other’s interest. And boom, the answering smile on the producer’s face, a clear indicator of smooth sailing progress.

“And you Mr Eames? I wasn’t aware that you have the sight.”

A look of puzzlement crossed Eames’ face, “What do you mean?”

“I have been taking note of this meeting. Most of the photos your team had gathered were outright fakes,” Arthur pointed his chin at the pile of glossy films in the trash, so terribly cropped they wouldn’t even convince a fourth grader. “Some were Photoshop-ed well enough to fool even a photography expert. But some - ” he leveled his eyes straight into the Eames’ blue green ones. “Some were real. And they were the exact ones you’ve handpicked. Every single one of them.”

Someone in the room sucked in a deep breath and it could be his imagination, but the temperature of the room instantaneously fell a few degrees cooler. Arthur spotted the exact moment Eames face paled, before recovering almost right after.

“Arthur, good lord, I have to give it to you,” the producer grinned toothily, rolling the _Ar_  sound deliciously, and revealing the bottom row of his surprisingly crooked teeth. “And that, ladies and gentlemen,” he turned to his team. “Is how you get the viewers engaged.”

Arthur quirked his eyebrows; then sighed internally at the mess that's about to go down. Honestly, it would have been so much easier to let the matter rest. But sometimes, when you are born into this business, it’s no longer just about the money and the reputation. Sometimes, it’s about duty. About rules. The latter, especially applicable to a castaway like Arthur.

“What’s your birth date Mr Eames,” he asked, flipping through the file for a second look. “Is the one in your profile accurate?”

“Of course it is, what -”

“Do you know your exact time of birth? Never mind, it’s sometime after midnight isn’t it?” Arthur said with a certain degree of confidence, after a mere glance at Eames’ birthday. Math had always been his strongest subject.  

“Yes, but what has this got to do with anything?”

“Light… ” Arthur frowned as he stared at the man, hoping for a second clue to solve this unthinkable paradox. Maybe something in the position of his eyes relative to ears. Mmmh... Nope. Still, nothing to suggest a different conclusion. “Your birth characters are impossibly light. It’s a miracle for you to even age past adolescence.”

“Excuse me,” now Eames sounded beyond bewilderment, edging into the territory of insulted.

“There's this ideology in Taoism that a person's fate is determined by these eight characters which correspond to one's date and time of birth, and the eight characters in turn summed up to a single weight. Your fate weighs incredibly light, too light in fact, for you to have lived for as long as you did in this life. But it does explain something,” Arthur waved at the photographs still laid out on the table. “With such a light-weighted set of characters, it’s no wonder that spirits are drawn to you, and you in return, to them.”

Some of the staff had started whispering amongst themselves. Truth be told, ever since production started, there had been accounts of strange incidents happening around the set. Crying wails echoing along empty walkways. Props found in obscure location without anyone recalling to have moved them. These odd occurrences had happened frequent enough, that some of the people had taken to joke about how even the occult had been hyped up about their show. Now, in light of Arthur’s exposition, these jokes did not seem as funny as before. One by one, their eyes strayed involuntarily to their producer.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Eames blurted out. “I have being out hunting for the supernatural since forever, and never once,” he lifted his index finger for emphasis. “Have I ever seen head or tail of any single one of them. And sadly speaking, I don’t think this situation will ever change.”

Arthur couldn’t help but chuckled at Eames’ indignation. “To be honest, Mr Eames you are indeed an anomaly,” he admitted as much. “I have no idea why you have been able to avoid your fate thus far. But mark my words,” Arthur dropped his voice a few notches lower to constitute a pretty foreboding warning. “if it’s as you’ve said, that you’ve been chasing the supernaturals for as long as you did, I think it’s very much about time they catch up to you.”

Eames said nothing to that as the silence stretched over the room. Then swiftly, he retrieved Arthur’s card back out from his shirt pocket. “Mr Rivers. I had thought you seemed like a good fit for the show, but I think I was mistaken. Our viewers are looking for entertainment, and I intend to deliver a fantastic production.” Eames thrust Arthur’s card back into his face. “I don’t intend to let a poser and a fraud go on my show. So I think this will be our last meeting.”

Arthur merely glanced at the outreach hand with a pang of slight regret. Oh boy, Mal would be furious once she’d learnt of what Arthur had done - burnt a well-connected prospect, Arthur did. But she would come around once she knew of Arthur's reasons, she always did.

And so too will Eames.

“Keep my card, Mr Eames,” Arthur said smoothly as he picked up his briefcase. “You never know when it might come in handy.”

This meeting, Arthur thought confidently as he made his way out of the studio, would not be their last.

Far from it in fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The premises of this story (at least the first arc of it and some character traits pertaining to Arthur) leans heavily on a original Chinese web-novel series by Taiwanese author 黯然销混蛋. It’s one of my favorite series ever, which unfortunately, will unlikely be ever translated. Because it's too niche. There will still be tons of references to Chinese and Taoism mythologies, but the plot and character, esp Eames will have to deviate from the original. 
> 
> Instead of updating in whole chunk of words which i usually do (i.e. > 3000 words), this will be updated in short snippets. Around 1000 or less per chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

Absurd, Eames thought as he rinsed his hand in the sink.

The recommendation of Arthur Rivers had came all the way from the top, some network executive who was superstitious enough to deem it necessary for a consultant to join Eames’ production as a fail safe. And no, not to consult on the creative aspects of the show, which would have made some sense in Eames’ opinion, but Arthur Rivers was specifically asked to be brought on board as a consultant for the _occult_ on the off chance that the team encounter something supernatural while the camera’s rolling.

Eames had dismissed the suggestion as a silly joke, until he goggled the name and found Arthur’s resume. Both his credentials and references were laughably bare, which was only to be expected. After all who in their right mind would ever hire a consultant specialized in the occult, or even if they did hire one, ever publicly acknowledge the associations. But if Arthur had managed to bend the ears of some upper echelon big shot at Eames’ current network, the guy, as young as he had been, must had been extremely well connected. Definitely more so that what his resume suggested.

Still it wasn’t Arthur’s connections that really sparked off Eames’ interest, it was, to put it shallowly, his profile picture.

While Eames thought Arthur could definitely go easier on the hair gel. But the suit? The ageless, debonair, dark-haired charms? Between Kim hosting the show and Rivers offering side and maybe even snide commentaries, the ratings would have exploded off the charts. Eames was certain of it.

Unlike his own opinion on the subject, Eames never kid himself that his viewers believed there’s a Yeti out there waiting to be found by civilization. He knew people tuned in for him and his gimmicks, and he had jolly well made sure to appear shirtless in a few rare episodes. Point was, Eames knew who or what butter his bread, and he had every intention to butter the fans right back up. So Kim might be the one who drew in the initial crowd, but if Eames played Arthur right, the female demographics would gobble the consultant up. Bones, suits and all.

When Arthur had finally showed up all impassioned and straitlaced, looking absolutely perfect in his that three piece charcoal suit and vest, Eames was thrilled beyond imagination. The aloofness, the unsmiling demeanor…  Guy didn’t even need to be scripted, Arthur’s own personality would have sold himself. Or at least that’s what Eames had thought, until Rivers had Eames all riled up and pissed off with his nonsensical theatricals.

Eames might have been chasing and hunting for supernaturals all his life. But never once did they ever appear before him. What Arthur was saying has zero basis in reality. ZERO. Zilch. Nada. Not in the past thirty years, and absolutely not for the next seventy or hundred.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror, taking in his crows feet and five o’clock shadow, wondering not for the first time that day, how Arthur could have ever mistaken Eames for a short-lived bloke. Sure Eames had been a little down on sleep pre-filming, but he’d looked as hale as he had ever been. “Should not have lived past the age of adolescent…” he mimicked Arthur’s tone mockingly. “What utter bullshit,” he sneered into the mirror which had turned a little foggy on its sides because of the chill. He stared at the condensation numbly. On second thought…  the air around him seemed to be getting a little colder than usual.

Eames suppressed his shivers with a defiant scowl.

Great, now he’s the one incepting these strange thoughts into his own head. He turned on the faucet forcefully, splashing his face with water to clear his head. When he looked up, blinking away stray droplets, there’s another reflection in the fogged mirror, features so blurred, that Eames couldn’t have made out a face. But those black beady points were unmistakable eyes.

And they were staring right at Eames.

He turned around.

Nothing.

 _No, not nothing. No one_ , he corrected himself with an afterthought, feeling ridiculous. Then the door to the last stall creaked ominously closed, and Eames’ breath caught in his throat.

“Yusuf, is that you?” He asked, inching a step closer to the door. Maybe he should leave it alone, his rational mind suggested. But Eames was a sucker for bad ideas. Had built a life and a profession out of a mountain of bad ideas actually, what’s with that Finding Yeti and UFO trips. His curiosity was an addiction that needed to be fueled constantly, in moments like now, and he knew deep down that he was helpless against its whims.

In a minute, and Eames now stood right outside the stall. “Yusuf if this is your idea of a prank,” he threatened, licking at his lips nervously. “I’m going to cut your pay!” With a rough push, he swung the door open to a nondescript design of bare gray wall and an empty toilet bowl.

Feeling a strange mix of disappointment and relief, he closed the door and turned around. There’s a dark-haired woman staring right into his eyes. “Bloody hell,” Eames almost scream before taking a good look at the almond shaped eyes and full red lips. “Kim! What the hell are you doing here!”

“Checking up on you,” the woman said, narrowing her eyes at Eames. “You’ve been in here an awful long time.”

“But this is the gents,” Eames spluttered exasperatedly.   

“So,” Kim shrugged, pushing past Eames to reach for the handle of the last stall. “Is he in there?”

“Who? Yusuf?”

“No, the consultant,” Kim said with an air of annoyance as she crossed her arms.

“Huh?”

“Come on Eames, I have known you since college. He’s your type isn’t he?”

It wasn’t exactly a secret, but few people could have guessed that Dahlia Kim had actually been Eames’ junior back in college. It’s just that Eames rugged looks made him seem much older than he really was, and Kim’s half Asian blood in her made her looked way much younger.

They had known each other for years, had even dated for a while back in college, and more recently, began dating again since Eames decided to stay in the States for good. So Kim definitely knew what she was saying about Eames’ type - cute looking, intellectual, standoffish ice-queens, who are temptingly corruptible. Someone exactly like Arthur Rivers.

“What does it matter anyway?” he said honestly as Kim huffed, and kicked the door open, slightly placated only when she found the stall empty.  

Looking at the red painted nails, and well-contoured makeup, Eames found himself reminiscing those days when Kim’s still very much attuned with her bookish Asian stereotypes, smiling up at him exasperatedly but fondly, whenever Eames painted grandiose plans of discovering lost civilization in the Amazons or finding a marooned spaceship. Those were the good old days, but everyone had to grow up someday. Even girls like Kim.

“Look Kim,” he said, suddenly feeling guilty for some inexplicable reason, like he somehow had a hand in Kim’s metamorphosis. He turned Kim around and held her by her shoulders. “We’ve been through this. I don’t know what you are so insecure about? You’re the one I am with right now. You’re the one I lo - ”

The door to the gents slammed open, and Eames looked up irritably to glare daggers at the intruder who’s none other than Yusuf, his cameraman; as usual, with his bad timings. “Yusuf,” he hissed with a pointed look, hoping that the cameraman could get his hint, hold his pee and leave them alone for a while. But Yusuf just stared at them with a blank expression.

 _Good lord_ , he and Kim had been discreet, but Eames’ was pretty sure that by now the whole production team had known about their relationship. So there’s really no need for Yusuf to act all shock and surprised, and just leave Eames and Kim to their moment and piss off.  

“Is he inside?” Someone said from behind Yusuf as the cameraman was pushed brusquely aside, and Eames went very, very still.

That’s Kim, alright.

Kim, with an unreadable expression, standing right there, behind Yusuf. But if that’s Kim, whose shoulders was it then, feeling still distinctively solid and increasingly cold, right between Eames’ fingers?

 _Don’t look. Eames._ His mind cautioned. He could see Yusuf, eyes wide and shaking his head wordlessly at Eames, slow and warningly, his usual brown chubby face now pale and bloodless.

 _Don’t look. Oh God, Eames. Don’t look._ Eames released his fingers shakily, one by one.

“Eames?” Kim… no. The... the thing spoke, its voice so disembodied and emotionless that Eames wondered how he could ever have mistook that for Kim.  

Something grabbed his arm in a tight wrench. It felt very much like a hand, one that had just been removed from a freezer. Or a morgue. And it -

It was just simply too much to bear.

Eames threw his hands up and screamed, not giving a goddamned fuck of how much of a wimp he’d look and sound. This in turn broke both Yusuf and Kim, their restraints crumbling, as they too, screamed. Then something else, something that’s definitely not either one of them three, wailed. Its screeching, so harsh and ear-piercing, that it triggered the remaining flight reflex left within Eames who finally picked up his legs and scrambled for the door out of the gents. _But shit, shit,_ Yusuf and Kim looked like they were pulling the door shut on him.

“Don’t you guys fucking dare!!” he yelled at them in vain and slammed face first into the metal door. Not caring one bit about the painful bump on his forehead, he pulled desperately at the handle, but still the door stayed closed, as if held shut by an invisible force.

“Eamesss…” the voice behind him drifted closer.

“Eames why do you run…” the cold air felt as if it was behind him.

“Eames,” something breathed into his ear. “I’m right beside you.”

There’s only one thing left Eames could do. He blacked out.  

 

* * *

 

Something smelled delicious and warm, like vanilla, cinnamon and nutmeg.

Eames opened his eyes, squinting against the light to find Kim’s face hovering merely inches above his face. His mouth fell open into a voiceless squeak, which then ended in a groan, as he felt a sharp throbbing, flared up in his head.

“Eames, listen to me, you’re in hospital,” Kim said. Or maybe something looking like Kim said. Eames couldn’t even tell when he’d been awake, and he trusted his eyes even lesser, now that his faculties were compromised by a pounding pain.

“You blacked out. Fell on the floor. Doctor said you had a minor concussion.”

So had it all been a dream then? A drug induced nightmare?

“I remember seeing something…” he croaked. His mouth and throat tasted as dry as a leaf. _No_ , he recalled a second later. Not see. But those hands… So cold. Beyond anything Eames had ever felt in life before. He looked at Kim for comfort, waiting for her to assure him that it had all been a dream. Hoping to find a trace, any trace that those dreadful memories had all been some concoction of Eames' hyperactive imagination. What he saw in Kim’s expression though, did nothing to settle his fear.

Oh god. It was real. All of it. The cold… the voice. And, and...

And it had called Eames’ name.

Eames could feel himself hyperventilating, his mind dizzy and blurred on the fringes again as he sucked in deep gulps of air, but still not nearly enough of it. He clutched at his throat as Kim stared in shock, mouthing or shouting something. Eames didn’t know, he couldn’t hear anything.  

He spotted movement out from the corner of his eye, as the pale blue ward screen was pulled aside, and a figure emerged from behind. God, what a fantastically, well-cut suit wrapped all around a nice, lithe body. And that face, Eames would have recognized that face anywhere - Arthur Rivers.

There’s a slight curl to the corner of Arthur’s lips as he pressed a placating hand on Eames’ pulse. Shit, had Eames been unconsciously voicing out all of his previous thoughts?

Arthur looked calm, confident, chill. His hand, a comforting presence on Eames, even as the man sucked on what appears to be a cigarette. Right here, in a hospital. Oh the audacity.

“No smoking…” Eames heard himself saying hoarsely. And Arthur chuckled, sending a puff of smoke right into Eames’ face. Vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg. So that’s where the scent came from. And just like that, Eames felt the load on his chest lightened considerably, and he could finally breathe easier.

“Mr Eames,” Arthur said as he looked right at Eames, an indescribable expression on his face.

“Seems like I was right. It was indeed time they caught up to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it was raining outside when i wrote this. And i was alone at home... And yes I'm a scaredy cat, like Eames. Lol.


	3. Chapter 3

Throughout the course of his career, Arthur have had many people threw themselves at him out of desperation. Desperate real estate rookies trying to be rid of problematic properties; desperate relatives trying to find or disprove the last written will of their wealthy kin; desperate businessmen trying to rebuild crumbling enterprises and sometimes, lonely desperate housewives of aforementioned businessmen.

Eames was Arthur’s first though.

His first encounter with a desperate _someone_ working in television.

And deities above, the drama.

Seeing Arthur’s face and hearing his voice appeared to have brought the producer back from the ledge of a suffocating panic attack, but the ensuing relief then proceeded to tip the man right over the bridge, spiraling down an entirely different kind of breakdown.

Eames flung himself upright on bed, pain from his injury all but ignored, and threw himself on Arthur, looping his arms around Arthur’s waist and burying his face into Arthur’s midriff. Like a huge and extremely spooked Malamute clinging onto his human.

“Arthur... Arthur…. I was so scared… ”

If only Eames had been an actual dog, Arthur might have been sympathetic. But a grown-ass man sticking to him like a leech? No fucking way.

“Get off me, Mr Eames,” Arthur said, accompanied by a not very gentle push at the man’s shoulders. But Eames barely budged, his arms only squeezing tighter as if he were an octopus. A very frightened octopus, with trembling shoulders and… gosh, is Eames crying?

 _Okay, that’s it_ , Arthur thought and rolled his eyes. He gripped at the offending arms, and wrenched them off his very expensive suit with a fair amount of effort. Then tossed the body off of himself and back onto the bed, heaving a labored pant. Eames might be weak to ghost, but the man’s definitely not weak.

“Mr Eames, please keep your hands to yourself,” he sucked on a puff of whatever’s left of his cigarette, feeling at once better from the prior exertion. “And your snot,” he added, wrinkling his nose at Eames’ pathetic face before inspecting his own suit for damages.

“What are you doing? My boyfriend’s injured,” the woman in the room, Dahlia Kim said as Arthur took a step back, slapping on the grabby hands pawing at his sleeves. Something in the tone of her voice, and her choice of words caught Arthur’s attention. He looked up with an eyebrow quirked. Dahlia was glaring at him with an expression which could only be described as jealousy. _Interesting._ And Arthur couldn’t help himself from taunting.

“Then I suggest you keep your boyfriend on a leash.”

Dahlia scowled in response, then proceeded to coo soothingly at Eames while offering her hands for him to grip onto instead.   

“So, you finally saw a ghost huh?” Arthur said not without a bit of glee at the prospect of a new client. “I can help you,” he pitched. “But first I need to know what happened.”

“But - ” A shudder ran through Eames, a myriad of expressions taking flight on his face as the man recalled his encounter, voice tapering off in a pitiful whimper “ - it’s scary.”

“You will get used to it,” Arthur responded bluntly, pretty confident that this would not be Eames’ last rodeo with a spirit. “Now I need you to think, to recall its face. Its features - Male, female. Hair color. Eyes.” he asked, ticking off his fingers. “More importantly have you ever seen someone that look like that before?”

“God no!” Eames spluttered. “I didn’t see its face. But it sounded like a woman.”

“A woman,” Arthur muttered, not the least surprised. Vengeful spirits were almost always someone of the fairer sex. Sometimes it seemed to Arthur that since female wasn’t able to achieve equality in their representation in the land of living, they had decided to compensate for it in the realms of the dead as a last fuck-off to the male patriarchy. Who knows, maybe ex first ladies would one day take to haunting the White House? But back to the topic on hand, “And did she say anything?”

“Nothing,” Eames swallowed a bitter grimace. “Just kept repeating my name.”

“Your name,” Arthur deadpanned and Eames nodded. The spirit knew Eames’ name, and that was no coincidence. She, when she had been alive, must had been someone who knew the producer.

“Have you done anything to a woman before?” Arthur asked coolly, leveling a steely stare at the man who frowned puzzledly. “What do you mean?”

“Ever held a woman against her will?”

And Eames’ eyes widened. “God no!” he protested vehemently. “I may have been a ladies’ man, but no, I would never - what the bloody hell are you insinuating.” Eames’ distress at the accusation looked genuine and Arthur believed him.  

“I am asking if you have ever offended any woman? Knowingly or unknowingly” Arthur sighed as Eames looked at him blankly. It wasn’t entirely an unexpected reaction. Human could be so pig-headed and narcissistic sometimes, that they hurt other without ever meaning to. “Cheated on anybody? Ditched anyone?”

“I don’t cheat,” Eames replied looking quite offended by now. “And I always try to end things amicably.”

“Maybe you were the only one who thought that way. Ms Kim?” Arthur looked at Dahlia, who merely pursed her lips and finally nodded in resigned agreement with Eames. What Eames had said was true, at least from her point of view. Things had been tense around their first breakup, but they were quite young back then, and Kim just couldn’t withstand the distance of an ocean. Choosing finally to let whatever they had, fizzled away, and coming to regret it only years later.

“Accidents? Drunk driving? Nothing at all?” Arthur frowned as they exhausted all potential reasons which could have unleashed a female spirit’s grudge. But of course. Eames could have been lying.

“Oh I know that look,” Eames said, sounding slightly irritated with their lack of progress. “You could check, I am not lying.”

“Fine. I believe you.” Arthur replied, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Maybe we need to  approach the problem from a different angle. You’ve said you’ve never encountered a ghost before. Had there been any significant events in your life, something which could have triggered this change?”

Eames forehead crinkled in deep thought, before his lips pouted in an upturned curl, voice slightly accusatory, “Meeting you?”

At once, Arthur understood the implication behind that look, after all he’s used to seeing them etched on the faces of those around him. “I am flattered that you view our meeting as something of significance. But I assure you, Mr Eames, the rules of my trade are very strict. And if I ever overstepped any of these boundaries, which I would never have done, an expensive lawsuit would have been the least of my worries. My own family would make sure of that.”

“So think,” Arthur encouraged. “Were there anything else? Did someone close to you passed away? Have you been to any strange places? Lost anything?”

The last mention appeared to have kick-started something in Eames’ memory. “The pendant,” he said with a jolt, while at the same time, Dahlia snorted. “Not that dumb pendant again… ”

“But it’s been with me all my life, and you lost it!”

“I didn’t lose it,” Dahlia retorted defiantly.“I’ve already told you. It’s still somewhere in my house. I will return it once I’ve found it.”

From what Arthur could make of the conversation, this pendant they were talking about, had clearly been a point of contention between the couple for a while now.

“This pendant,” he interrupted before the argument could escalate. “How does it look like?”

Eames struggled for a moment, trying to describe the pendant, before spotting the phone by his table and reached for it instead. He swiped it once and then turned the phone to face Arthur. “Here, it’s in the picture.”

The screen showed a selfie of the couple. Not recent. Both of them looked young in it. Very young. And - Arthur discreetly shifted his eyes to glance at Dahlia Kim - her almond-shaped eyes might looked almost the same, but it was very evident that much else had transformed. When she caught his eyes accidentally, Arthur cleared his throat and focused his attention back on the picture, specifically the pendant around Eames’ neck. Its material looked very much like jade, but the intricate details, the design and those strange characters? Arthur did not recognized those, and that thought, that there’s things he’s unaware of, annoyed him greater than he would have admitted.

“Send me the photo,” he said. “I would have to do some research on it. Meanwhile I would suggest that you check on all of your previous ex. See if they’re still alive.”

“All of them? Even Abigail from fourth grade?” Eames joked nervously, blatantly avoiding Kim’s glare. Arthur nodded.

“Even if she was the one who punched me first?”

“That punch suggest that you must have done something to deeply offend her. So yes.”

Right before he’d take leave of the room, Arthur slipped a piece of paper into Eames’ hand. “What is this?” the man asked, staring at the strange line of numbers. “A spell to keep the ghost away?

Arthur couldn’t help that small tick at the corner of his lips. “No, Mr Eames. That’s my bank account number and the fees for today. I charged consultation by the hour. Message me once you have made the payment and I will send you the invoice.”

“This is the fee?” Eames spluttered, eyes boggling at the numbers.

“Not the usual. Since this is your first consultation, I’ve given a discount.” Arthur straightened his jacket and picked up his briefcase, then feeling a slight sympathy for the unfortunate producer, offered a line of advice. “For future references: always treat an encounter with a ghost like an encounter with any natural disaster. Always leave your belongings behind, and never ever take the elevator.”

Congratulating himself of another business well sourced while ignoring Eames’ sound of protest, Arthur shut the door firmly behind him.

There’s a bit of a chill outside of the room, the long narrow walkway of the ward, conveniently devoid of people. The corner of his lips curled as Arthur retrieved his cigarette case from the inner pocket of his blazer, took a stick out and lit it up deftly with his Zippo. He took a deep breathe of it, and exhaled contentedly, waiting for the other to make her move. After all, ladies should always come first, and Arthur had been brought up feminist.

Slowly, the lights above him flickered while the air around him wobbled. Its density changing and thickening, the shadows merging together into an unmistakable profile of a young woman. As she approached him slowly, blood bled from her eyes, dripping onto the floor like droplets of rain.

Arthur watched the display with thinly veiled boredom all while smoking on his cigarette. It’s been awhile since a spirit had dared to stand up against him, and truth be told, Arthur was disappointed. In terms of scariness, this spectacle had barely scored a four out of ten.

“Miss,” he said. “I am not sure what that idiot did to you. But your time with the living is already up. For your own sake, you should really move on.”

It was a futile attempt to reason with a spirit, and Arthur in all his past experiences, had never much success in doing so. Still, according to procedures, one’s got to try.

“Don’t…” The woman was sobbing now, her voice broken and in pain, as if she’s wheezing short of air. She moved closer, eyes staring mournfully at Arthur.

“Don’t interfere!” The ghost lunged, mouth gaping open showing a row of sharp pointed teeth. But Arthur was prepared, he blew a mouthful of his smoke right onto her face. It’s effect was almost instantaneous, a brief moment of shock crossed the spirit's face and then a ghostly wail as the spirit leaped back, morphing into a ball of black shadow which escaped into the ventilation duct. At once, the temperature of the room returned to normal.

Arthur walked up to the duct while pondering over the circumstances. The spirit was not gone, that’s for certain. But his smoke had definitely rendered her to a weakened state. It would only be temporary, and with her persistence in haunting the producer, she will be back very soon. Perhaps even stronger, further deviating from the path of redemption, as she transformed gradually into a malevolence. Arthur truly hoped Eames would have pieced together something from his memories by then. For his own sake and hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a random rant:  
> I dislike door gaps. (big or small)  
> It's kind of paranoia and I am always imagining eyes staring at me from between the gaps.  
> Usually it's fine, and i will leave my door open for ventilation.  
> but since i started writing this chap, i have taken to shut my door, always.  
> and so my room is annoyingly warm now


	4. Chapter 4

Things had been uncharacteristically quiet around Eames since his last supernatural encounter. 

Arthur had apparently done something to make it this way, had confirmed as much, sounding rather irritated, when Eames had panic-dialed him the first night he’s alone at home and something went bump in the dark. 

“So she’s gone?” Eames had asked with a small ray of hopefulness which fell flat not a minute after. “Not entirely.” Arthur said offhandedly followed by a brief pause, no doubt indulging in yet another one of his smoke. “She will be back, and no Mr Eames, I don’t know when. So until then, stop calling me.” And the line cut off dead. 

It wasn’t reassuring. Not the least bit. But there was nothing Eames could have done. And to be frank, it was getting tiring to be afraid all the time. So Eames kept himself busy and went about with the things he could change. 

They produced the first episode and aired it to much fanfare and delightful reception. It was a silly segment, more hype than truth, for they had deliberately chosen a location from the pile of fakes, and then proceeded to rip the myth up on show. This wasn’t quite what Eames had in mind when he’d first tinkered with the concept - he was after the truth - but it had to do for now and Arthur had warned as much. If Eames were to dive eagerly into his pursuit of haunted houses given his current aliment, it would have been a one way street right into Hotel California. Eames could try checking out anytime he like, but he could never leave. 

So nope, real haunting were off the table for now, with not much repercussion except for one. 

And no, it wasn’t their viewership, in fact their ratings had exceeded expectation, their show was trending and the executives were so pleased that they had sent along a bottle of champagne. It was in short, the boredom, plain and simple - Eames was bored. Especially so, when the next segment they had to film, an abandoned shop on a stretch of quiet strip, was yet another known hoax. 

Eames believed that the thrill of chasing the supernatural was ninety percent journey and ten percent outcome. And following a deliberately false lead? No trepidation, no tension, no uncertain outcome. That sapped out all hundred percent of Eames’ energy. He voiced his resentment as much with Yusuf. 

“Well,” the cameraman said as he fiddled with his equipment for their next shot. “Maybe you can try calling out to her.”

“Who?”

“Not who. What.” Yusuf grinned as he made an air quote  “The - you know what.” Realization flickered across Eames’ face followed closely by a involuntary shudder. “Arthur said she’s not entirely gone right? Why not summon her here, and have her like, throw some things around and all that. Ghostly stuff.” Yusuf wraggled his eyebrows as he adjusted the lighting with cluck of his tongue and a muttered curse at the shoddy job done by his assistant. “Simply filming her doing her thing will explode our ratings. And best of all, dead people get paid less than interns. We can have her move the equipment and all that. Save up on our production budget.” 

“You know what Yusuf?” Eames pondered over his suggestion and looped a hand around his cameraman’s shoulders comfortably. “You did make a very good point.”

“I did?”

Eames sneaked a hand over Yusuf’s throat and said half-joke and half-threatening, “I should murder you right now, and have you back as a dead cameraman. Save up on all that production money - ” 

Suddenly the lighting flickered and Eames jumped. 

“Eamesss….” There’s a wheezing sound, and Eames could feel goosebumps breaking out on his skins. Something gripped him tight on his wrist and Eames wanted to scream. “Eames, you are choking me…” 

Oh god it’s Yusuf, Eames released his hand apologetically, and the cameraman spluttered out a series of coughs. “Were you really trying to kill me? I didn’t follow you halfway across the globe to put up with this kind of abuse - ”

“Excuse me,” someone said from behind, and Eames squeaked before recognizing the feminine voice as the new intern they’d hire. Embarrassed, Eames reminded himself to stop jumping at every shadow. But the intern herself was unperturbed. “Am I interrupting something,” she smiled confidently, eyes flicking between Yusuf and Eames. 

“A murder -” Yusuf complained, and Eames cut him off annoyed. “Nothing consequential, what’s up?”

“Just a slight question about the script,” she sidled up to Eames, pressing just a tad too close for comfort, the low cut v of her top revealing a lace white bra. It was a seduction completely lacking in subtlety, that even Yusuf rolled his eyes at the attempt, while Eames only shrugged, feeling thankful that Kim’s still held up in makeup, otherwise, he would have been in for yet another earful. Which was all rather unwarranted actually. God knows that Eames had never encouraged all these unwanted attention, as flattering as they might have been. Happy girlfriend, happy life. Truer words had never been said, and Eames knew better than to stray from that. 

“So this sentence here…” the intern said in a saccharine voice, then stopped and looked up at Eames as if surprised, before smiling coyly as if they were sharing a secret. “I was thinking - ” She continued, then paused once again with barely concealed amusement. “- Producer Eames, you must really stop toying with my hair...”

“Mmh?” Eames grunted, grabbed the file out of the intern’s hands for a closer look, staring and re-reading at the yellow highlights in the script and wondering just what the hell was wrong with them. Nope, to his Englishman eyes, the sentence looked absolutely fine. “I don’t see -” 

There was a squeak then and he looked up. The intern did not look fine. In fact her face was slightly gray, and she was staring at Eames. At his hand specifically, both of which were on the binder. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin - ” she said with an unsettled expression, then her neck snapped up with a jerk, and her voice turned shrill and panic. “Someone’s pulling on my hair!” 

That caught both Eames’ and Yusuf’s attention and their eyes zoomed in to the intern. She was right, something was tugging at her hair, clawing at it so roughly, that Eames could see the roots gradually being pulled tightly to reveal the scalp. But there was a twist. There was no one next to her. No one else besides Eames. And it definitely wasn’t Eames’ hands pulling on her hair. 

“Oh my god,” Yusuf gasped as a shadowy figure started to apparate in a space which was just moments ago, empty. 

“Oh my god,” Eames agreed, his feet backing cautiously away. Just when he thought he was safe, the figure looked up, eyes boring themselves right into Eames. 

And it smiled.

Eames finally turned then to flee the scene. But as soon as his back was turned, an invisible weight bore on him, and he could barely moved an inch, both feet rooted firmly to the ground. Something cold then slithered over his arms and shoulders, snaking themselves over his neck.

Eames looked up pleadingly at Yusuf for help,  _ but shit what’s that man doing? Wait, that little red dot of light... Is the camera rolling right now? Is that what Yusuf’s doing - filming? All while Eames was being rode upon by a ghost?  _

Eames made up his mind then, if he ever got out of this alive, he's going to kill his cameraman. 

 

* * *

 

Kim was just dabbling on her blush when she heard the commotion outside. She fiddled with her phone and frowned.  _ God is it already time for the filming? _

As she looked back up to the mirror for one final touch, the reflection that stared back at her was not her own. Pale.

The dresser started vibrating and Kim scrambled back hurriedly. Slowly, her lipstick floated in the air, towards the mirror, scrawling out in messy but still legible letters, bold and red- 

**_I WON’T LOSE TO YOU_ **

The reflection grinned menacingly as the lights quivered, and then pitch darkness. Kim couldn’t tell whether the screams that followed were hers or entirely something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just another one of those chapters which I found difficult to write.


	5. Chapter 5

When he saw the somber expressions on the crew’s faces, Arthur was worried for a brief moment that he had arrived too late, and his client, so recently cultivated had been ferried off across the river to the land of the dead. 

But as the crowd parted and someone led the way for Arthur into a derelict, and abandoned-looking, shop-like building, he could hear the distinctive drawl of a British accent barking out orders and directions. The camera, Arthur noted as he drew closer, was rolling, pointing right at Kim as she presented a well-rehearsed hash of conspiracies and theories on the histories of the building they were currently standing in. 

Eames, the man in question, looked little worse for wear, albeit slightly miffed and lips slightly stiff, perfectly in his element and face in deep concentration as he stared keenly at the screen before him. Arthur waited till the shot was called cut before clearing his throat, “Mr Eames, I was under the impression that you were in trouble.”

“Arthur!” The delight on the producer’s face blinded Arthur for a few crucial seconds, during which he was once again pulled into a bear hug by clingy arms followed by a now much familiar greeting. “I was so scared...” 

Immediately, Arthur extracted himself brusquely from corded muscles. 

“I’ve said before and I’ll say again - Keep. Your. Hands. Off. Me.” He warned, while Eames pouted with puppy-like eyes.  _ No.  _ Arthur crossed out his previous thoughts.  _ Predator-like eyes.  _ Desperate eyes on a desperate man eager to have his ghostly problem resolved. That was the sole purpose of his acquaintance with Arthur: business. 

Arthur had no wish to be anyone’s comfort pillow, and judging by the way Dahlia Kim glared at them, even lesser desire to be implicated in a love triangle drama with overtly jealous girlfriends. 

“So why am I here today?” Arthur asked irritably as his fingers itched for a smoke. “Everything seems fine.” Swimmingly even, going by the initial ratings and reviews. 

That was when Eames’ face fell flat and uneasy, as his voice dropped to a whisper. “She appeared again. The - you know what.”

“The same lady ghost from before?” 

Shocked at Arthur’s bluntness, Eames clutched onto Arthur’s arm and looked around all spooked, as if just the mere mention of a spirit would have summon one to them. When he was satisfied that all was clear, Eames finally nodded grimly, “Voice sounded the same.”  

“Did you get a good look at her this time?”

“I got something better,” Eames shared an offhanded look with the cameraman. “I got a video.”

The lighting in the video was a little off, but the quality remained superb in high definition color.  It was so good in fact, that the whole video now looked even more implausible than those grainy fakes on YouTube, the profile of the ghostly figure hugging onto Eames’ back, looking so defined, that no one would have believed it wasn’t CGI. 

Yet the pale face and black beady eyes were the exact features Arthur had seen during their brief face-off at the hospital. 

“And you still don’t recognize her?” He turned to Eames with a quirked eyebrow.

“Absolutely not,” Eames said, eyes widening to emphasize on his innocence. “And, to be sure, I did contact my past girlfriends. All of them. Abigail was a little hard to track down. But she’s alive, although barely, what with having to take care of three kids...” 

Arthur ignored Eames’ inane chatter, frowning instead at the screen while hitting on the pause and then on the replay. It was getting all rather bizarre, this whole case. “It’s strange.” He remarked. “She did not hurt you.” 

“Did not hurt me?” Eames squawked. “You have no idea the number of years I would have to spend in therapy just to reverse the psychological damages.” 

“Mr Eames,” Arthur sighed and reached into his pocket for his smoke. “The dead usually haunts with a grudge. They seek revenge on the people whom they thought had somehow wronged them. But from what I could see here, whoever’s haunting you seemed a little more harmless than the usual.

In fact, under Arthur’s discerning gaze, the spirit had merely looped her arms around the producer’s shoulders in a seemingly affectionate embrace, and then proceed to fade away in an anticlimactic fashion once she’d appeared to have her fill of skin. 

“Harmless?” Eames’ snort was rife with incredulity and indignation. “Look at my schedule!” He waved a pile of paper in Arthur’s face. “We are already falling way behind in our production. Any more delay and it would constitute as a breach of contract.” Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the argument, but Eames took out his phone next, thrusting the screen at Arthur. “And look, see here,” the producer pointed at the display of a photo. “It’s not just me that thing is after. Now it’s after Kim as well.”

That caught Arthur’s attention and he peered at the phone for a closer look. The words were scrawled in red, bold letters - a paranormal message. Arthur glanced up from the screen at Dahlia Kim, arms-crossed and petulant expression on her face, and an idea began to take shape in Arthur’s mind.

“What were you doing before the ghost appeared?” He asked Eames.

“Nothing,” the producer quipped, his response a tad too fast, and his eyes a little too shifty. Arthur said nothing to that, just pinned Eames down with a cold unnerving stare and lit a cancer stick. “We were just discussing the script. Me, Yusuf and our intern over there,” the producer said shortly after, pointing out a woman by the corner who looked distracted and still in shock; and, Arthur noted, young and reasonably attractive. It wasn’t much to go on, and Arthur wasn’t about to pry in the clandestine affairs of others. But he could take the hint and make an educated guess, “Maybe the ghost wasn’t after you.” 

Eames expression turned incredulous at that. But Arthur stopped him before he could get a word in. “Haunting, yes. Possessing, yes. But I do not think she meant to cause you harm. Think about it, two hints - ” 

“First, she went for Kim to issue what appears to be a challenge.” Arthur raised a thumb for emphasis. “Second, her timing of appearance -” next came his index finger, his hand now portraying the shape of a gun. “When you were in close contact with another female,” Arthur added with a sideway glance back at the intern.

“Not close,” Eames replied hastily with his own sideway glance at Kim. “And it was a formal meeting.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Arthur shrugged. “The spirit didn’t like what she see, and that’s all that matters to her.

“So, Arthur…” Eames’ throat bobbed as he took in Arthur’s words with a frown, “Are you really suggesting what I think you are suggesting?”

_ Bang. Bang.  _

“Mr Eames,” Arthur hid his amusement with an innocuous puff of his cigarette. “I believe you may be haunted by a ghostly stalker.”   


	6. Chapter 6

“A stalker.” Eames deadpanned. Of all revelations, he did not expect something so…so... cliché.

Not to downplay the abuses and fear suffered by victims, but in television, stalking had been more of a been-there-done-that kind of thing; almost all crime and law series had done at least one decent episode on the subject. And ghostly stalking? No audience is going to buy into that, not even someone as open-minded as Eames.

“I am being haunted by a dead stalker?” He raised his eyebrow questioningly at Arthur for confirmation. The man merely nodded distractedly, paying more attention to his cigarette than to Eames.

“Apparently.”

Arthur’s nonchalant response triggered a vexed glare from the producer. “Where,” he blurted, voice raising before thinking better, and hissing out instead. “Where do I even pick up a ghost stalker?”

“Unless you have a secret hobby of running around naked in a graveyard, there’s indeed hardly any place to flirt with the dead.” Arthur’s attempt at humor only compounded on Eames’ frustration. “But that’s for normal people. May I remind you, Mr Eames, you work in television. You have videos all over the net. Your face’s easily recognizable among your fans. Anyone of them could have been your stalker when they’re alive, why is it so far fetched then to postulate that you too could have stalkers who were dead?”

Eames stilled, the gravity of what Arthur’s saying slowly sinking in. “I have three million subscribers,” he said with a hint of dread. “So you’re telling me there will be what - three million potential stalkers when they are dead?”

“Now that’s stretching it a little too far,” Arthur smirked, right before saying something which sounded all rather incredulous to Eames’ ears. “Sure, there’s a lot of bureaucratic red tape down there, but Reapers aren’t as inefficient as rumored. They do get most of the souls who’ve moved on.” He bent down to stub his cigarette on the floor, before taking a silver case out to store the butt, like what decent blokes do if they were not talking about reapers and ghosts.

“Those that do remain in the mortal realm, are the persistent ones. People who’ve died clinging onto some unresolved regret. Your lady stalker is most likely one of those.”

“Okay,” Eames supposed he should humor the idea with something that sounded just as ridiculous. “And is there any way to file a restraining order against a dead stalker?”

Arthur barely blinked. “Well, it isn’t exactly a restraining order, but I could file something on your behalf. The paperwork takes time though, and we need to know who the deceased lady is.”

“And how do you proposed I get that kind of information!” Eames ran his fingers through his hair agitatedly. The things the man was saying, coupled with the exorbitant fees he charged; the more Eames heard Arthur, the more he felt like he was being pulled into a scam. “Can’t you just like, I don’t know, salt and burn its bones? Destroy it?”

But Arthur shot the idea down with a wave of his hand followed by a foreboding warning. “Destroying a spirit meant destroying the very core of a soul, thereby removing it from Saṃsāra. This is not a decision mere mortals like us can make. The consequences of meddling with the wheels of reincarnation is so huge, it will cost the both of us not just our lives. Believe me, the price to it will be something much, much worse.”

Contrary to his usual dispassionate expression, there’s something undecipherable in Arthur’s eyes, something akin to burning rage. It made Eames flinched reflexively and he shuffled on his feet, looking at anywhere else but the consultant.

“Fine, I get what you are saying,” he acquiesced. “But how do you propose we find her identity?”

“The same way as every investigation - always start near,” Arthur said, throwing a knowing look at Kim whose eyes shifted away uneasily.

 _Huh._ Now that’s interesting.

 

* * *

 

There was a carton of fan letters stored away in the studio. _A carton of fan letters_ which Eames did not even know existed until just moments ago.

“Why wasn’t I informed of this?” He turned to his assistant curiously. But the man only twiddled his fingers while sending a furtive glance at Kim, “I was told you were too busy to go through unimportant mails…”

Eames sighed as he realized that Kim had once again taken the liberty to make that decision for him. It wasn’t exactly a big deal, and it was quite right that Eames had indeed been kept busy with the production.

Still he wished that she and the rest of the staff could have at least seek his opinion on the subject instead of going ahead with their own assumptions and biases. God damned it. Eames was not some ten year old kid who require protection and coddling.

He took the top most letter from the pile and tore it open with the impatience of a man eager to be through and done with an unpleasant task. From within the brown envelope, a pair of lacy knickers fell onto the floor. Caught off guard, he stared at it mutely, before sending a quizzical look at his assistant who only shrugged in response.

 _Okay,_ maybe Eames was not quite ready to sieve through this mess.

 

* * *

 

A good number of knickers, some bras, tons of bad love letters, threats, poetry and countless of rather well-received fan art later, the three of them came no closer to finding a likely identity for Eames ghostly admirer.

Staring at the remaining pile of letter on the table, Eames was on the verge of tearing out his hair. They were already behind on the production schedule and now this? There was only so much an ordinary producer could take. He slammed his hands on the table and stood up, ready to call it quits and just hire a private investigator to take over when he felt a tingling sensation crawling over the back of his arms, raising tiny goosebumps along the way.

“Do you feel that?” He asked, the moisture of his breathe condensing into wispy tendrils of mist against the sudden chill in the room. He swallowed uneasily, and sat back down slowly, daring only to keep his eyes on the familiar profile of Kim’s face, despite it being clouded in her own unease.

Despite what Arthur had said, Eames did not think he would ever get used to the sight of a ghost. The thought of the man had him immediately feeling calmer. _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur._ He repeated the name in his head, like a spell or a charm, regretting not for the first time that day why he had ever let Arthur out of his sight. Although a part of him still thought of Arthur as a fraud, there was something in that man that Eames couldn’t put a finger to. Something that offers a rock solid presence in Eames’ current chaos of a life. Like a talisman.

Above them the ventilator suddenly spluttered, and Eames jerked upright in his chair, a perfect mimicry of Kim and his assistant’s reactions. All three of them sat in perfect stillness and silence, half expecting the suspense to end with a loud Boo! from their ghostly visitor. When nothing happened in the passing minutes, Eames took in a shakily breath of relief, until a squeak from Kim knotted his shoulders once more into a tight tension.

Despite the absence of breeze, there was movement in the mountain of letters, which wobbled ever so slightly till one of the letters fell loose, slid across the desk, over the ledge and fluttered gently down into Eames’ waiting hand.

Eames’ first irrational thought was to burn the darned thing, after all what were the chances that the envelope landed in his hand out of coincidence - a big fat zero. But if he were to burn it, that would run their only led into a dead end.

His second thought then was to call Arthur. But what if this had truly been a coincidence? The thought of paying Arthur’s exorbitant consultation fee for a fruitless trip had Eames hesitating.

In the end, it was Kim who’d recovered enough to pluck the envelope right out of his hand and tore it open with little care. There was a letter and a photo of a girl, grinning happily at the camera.

The point of her nose, the roundness of her eyes, it was the same, unmistakable face of the spirit which had been haunting him; her skin the same shade of paleness, even against a backdrop of white; a machine photographed right alongside her, pumping liquids through tiny corded tubes that ended with white tape, concealing traces of needles punctuating into thin hands.

“Find me…” Something whispered and a shiver ran down Eames’ spine as he gazed at the picture of a girl in the hospital gown.


	7. Chapter 7

Candice Brown died six months ago in a car accident.

“Car accident? ” Eames interjected with a frown, but a slanted glare from Arthur had him silenced. Sometimes, some words were better left unsaid and some questions, better unasked. Mrs Brown, however, did not appear the least offended. “Oh I know what you’re thinking,” she said resignedly.  “We’ve been worrying over the same for years - one day those cancer cells would get to her. But no, my girl was a fighter.”

She ran a loving hand over the picture in the album. “She had been in remission for almost two years when the accident happened. Can you imagine that? Just when she could finally get on with her life. All gone because of a drunkard. Ironic isn’t it?”

Arthur learnt long ago not to question the fickleness of fate. Even Eames respectfully kept his silence as the woman reminisced about her daughter, and showed them page after page of faded photographs, neatly collated in a blue album.

When the album turned to a page with a conspicuous space where a photo must once had been, Eames conscientiously retrieved the portrait from his folder and handed it over to Mrs Brown who slotted it back into position with a smile. The label beneath read Candice age twenty five, followed by a date from five years before.

“I am glad you visited,” she said, leveling maternal eyes at Eames as she closed the album shut. “We didn’t know what to expect when we sent that letter. But Candice was such a huge fan of your videos. She had been so looking forward to seeing you at the reunion, and when that couldn’t happen, we just wanted you to... I don’t know… perhaps learn about her.”

She insisted then to show them her daughter’s room, leaving them alone in the room when the doorbell rang suddenly and she had to excuse herself.

The room was kept neat and tidy, as it would have been if its owner had been still alive. There were framed photographs displayed on the desk, one of which caught Arthur’s interest and he held it up gingerly. The subject in the photo was unmistakably Eames, only ten years younger, with lesser frown lines across his forehead and a slimmer jaw. He was laughing jovially, showing a bottom row of crooked teeth, seemingly unaware that his picture was being taken.

As Arthur gazed at the picture, he inadvertently thought of what it could have been were Candice Brown still alive. It could have been a touching high school reunion - chronically ill woman finally reuniting her high school crush whose wacky homemade videos helped her pulled through the toughest days of her treatment.

It could have been, but it would now never come to pass. And the regret from not being able to experience those infinite possibilities? That might be what held Candice Brown back.

“I don’t understand…” Eames murmured softly as he hovered uneasily over Arthur’s shoulder, “We were in different classes, why would she even… ” His voice tapered off when the room they were in suddenly wobbled, the outlines of furniture blurring and morphing into something else entirely, rows and rows of lockers like those found in high school.

Immediately strong arms from behind wrapped themselves around Arthur’s shoulders as a question was squeaked shakily into his ears. “What’s happening?” Eames asked.

“I think she wants to show us something.”

As soon as he’d say that, a girl came into view. Her face looked younger and rosier but the auburn hair and freckled skin were the same. In her arms were a mishmash of rolled posters, books and papers, stacked one on top of the other in a precarious balance which lasted until the moment she fumbled with her lock. A stray paper flew near Arthur’s feet, but he kept his eyes on Candice, who looked pained as she stared at the mess on the floor.

No points for guessing who showed up next.

Eames, de-aged, looking fresh and still very much innocent, just happened to be passing by and kind enough to help a girl in distress. A classic boy meet girl trope found in almost every teenage drama. No wonder the man works in television, Arthur thought, as Candice stared wide-eyed and with a dreamy quality at Eames’ retreating back. The producer’s life was like a freaking reel of cliche takes.

“That’s it?” the producer whispered as the flashback ended and they found themselves back in Candice’s childhood room. “That’s her reason for haunting me? Because I helped her once? Anyone else would have done the same.”  

“Perhaps,” Arthur said, hands itching for a smoke as he thought about the challenge of explaining Karma to someone so obviously unfamiliar with the concept. “Someone else might, but in the end no one else did. It was you who helped her. I don’t profess to comprehend the workings of fate. But clearly, your one random act of kindness was significant enough to  change her life.”

“I don’t think I made as much of an impact as what you are suggesting…” Eames hazarded, and Arthur could not stop a sigh from escaping, “You are a sinful man, Mr Eames.”

“What?”

“It’s against your nature to tread on someone’s life gently. You wanted to be remembered by people; to leave an impression in someone else’s life. That’s why you’re in television. Am I right?”

Eames frowned, lips pouting, and clearly unhappy with Arthur’s words, “And what’s wrong with wanting that? It ain’t a crime.”

“No it isn’t” Arthur agreed. “But every cause has its effect, and every encounter ties you to yet another person’s life. All these ties and relations sometimes make it that much harder for people to move on when their time with you is up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short one this time.


	8. Chapter 8

The first edit of their latest episode was playing on screen, the one filmed in the dilapidated shop house. The pacing was right, the sound effects were good, and Kim’s performance was pretty much spot-on. It looked fine, if not a little bland for Eames’ aesthetic. But the alternative suggested by Yusuf, to include that cameo footage of Eames’ ghostly stalker would have been a tad too audacious for his sensibilities. Not to mention the heat it would inadvertently draw if any of their audiences happened to recognize Candice Brown’s face.

Beside him, Kim made some comments on how the lighting threw too much shine on her makeup. Given the paucity of Eames’ knowledge on cosmetics, the conversation was pretty much one-sided which eventually earned him an annoyed hiss. “Are you even listening?”

“Yup,” he answered reflexively, both eyes never leaving the screen. A rustle, a buzz, and the screen went black. Eames sighed as Kim dangled the remote right in front of his face.

“Are you still angry?”

“For?”

“Me losing your pendant and not telling you about those fan letters,” Kim voice sounded small and her expression conveyed just a tiny bit of penitence which was rare. That girl could be really stubborn when she chose to.

“I am not angry,” he said truthfully. Eames was the type who’d rather spend his energy on work than to waste it on trivialities like anger. He got up from the couch and head to the kitchen to grab a beer, Kim following closely behind.

“And what about the you-know-what?” She crossed her hand and leaned against the counter.

“Arthur has promised to deal with her,” the mention of Arthur though, once again brought up the memory of their unpleasant conversation and Eames couldn’t help but ask. “Say Kim,” he paused, fumbling for both the right words as well as the bottle opener. “Am I the type of man you find hard to leave?”

When he turned around, beer popped, Kim’s eyes were narrow and glinted with something edgy and dark. “Is this your roundabout way of asking for a breakup?”

“Nope,” Eames said carefully, keenly aware that he’d just stepped on thin ice. “Just something Arthur said which bothered me.”

“Oh Arthur,” for some reason Kim sounded even more miffed than before and the silence stretched between them uncomfortably. As usual, Eames was the one who folded. “What’s with that?” he asked, keeping his tone lighthearted. “That ‘Oh Arthur’.”

“Nothing,” Kim sniped. _Oh boy_ , Eames took a big swig of beer, gripping on to his bottle reflexively as he brave himself for the impending shit storm that usually followed such one-worded answers.

“He’s your type isn’t it?” Kim asked brusquely, mood now obviously foul, as she swiped Eames away to grab herself a Perrier from the fridge.  

Eames felt his eyebrows raised at the familiar conversation and backed away nervously, placing the bottle on the counter to free his hand. Kim looked no different from normal but one can never be sure, especially given what he had so recently encountered.

“Well?” When Kim turned to face him, Eames did not hesitate to throw a handful of table salt right in her face. “What the hell - ” She spluttered, blinking and jerking backwards, her face scrunched up comically at the unpleasant surprise.

“What’s this? Salt! You crazy?”

Her expression of fury was so typical of Kim, that Eames felt the tension immediately unknotting. Confronting a pissed off girlfriend was after all much more conventional than confronting a ghost pretending to be said girlfriend.

“Just need to be sure,” he said hastily, placing the salt shaker back on the counter and passing some napkins to Kim, who tore them from his hands grudgingly.

“I always knew you were a little weird, but Eames, you are letting all these strange ideas go to your head,” she grumbled, flicking stray grains of salt off her eyelashes and nose tip. “And it’s all because of Arthur.”

“Well I actually read about this salt thing online...” he hedged, but Kim cut him off. “That’s not the point. What I am saying is, you shouldn’t let Arthur or that ghost influence how you live your life.”

“They don’t influ -”

“Oh really? When was the last time you’ve kissed me?”

In response to that line of questioning, Eames could only roll his eyes, bent and gave a quick peck to her forehead. “There, a kiss.”

By now, Kim looked absolutely fuming, and Eames knew he was playing with fire, but he was just as well, simply too tired of the bullshit to pretty much care.

“Not funny,” Kim grounded out. She looped her arms around Eames’ neck and pulled him down to look him in the eyes. “I am being serious here Eames. You’ve been acting so distant and weird recently. Jumping at every little shadow, this is so unlike you, you need to stop letting some dead people ruin your life.”

They’ve had their fair share of quarrel in the past, which was how Eames knew that the little frown and concern in Kim’s eyes were genuine. And her words had some truth to it. He knew he had acted very much unlike himself for the past few weeks, and even at the moment, when the both of them were alone and standing so very close to each other, all Eames could think about was some ghost stalker who might apparate right behind him. And that just ruined whatever angry-makeup-sex mood this argument was leading to.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he heard himself say. “Not until Arthur say we are in the clear.”

“Fuck Arthur,” Kim ever so stubborn, retorted instead and leaned in for a biting kiss.

“Seriously Kim, listen - ” But Kim only slid her hand down his back, and Eames could feel it right there and then - a chill prickling right down his neck.

All at once the chest of kitchen drawers creaked ominously within their tight confines. The cabinet doors flung open; pots, pans and whatever happened to be on the shelves rattled dangerously close to the ledges, _and damned,_ there went the pack of flour Eames never knew he had. The mess all over the floor did not seem to assuage the spirit’s wrath. And for the final paranormal touch, the lights flickered overhead and fizzed, burning out ever slightly and painting their surrounding into an eerie shade of grey and darkness with pops of light bursting in between.

“Uh oh,” Eames whispered.

Candice Brown was standing in his kitchen, and unlike those happy snapshots of her in the album, she looked livid, her eyes boring holes into Kim who clung on tightly by Eames’ side. As Kim subconsciously shifted closer, the apparition wailed and lunged, her blurry profile dissipating mid-way into air.

“Where is it?” Kim asked nervously before falling suddenly quiet, and inhaling a sharp take of breath. She jerked her arms upright staring at them in shock. “Oh my god,” she exclaimed voice bordering on hysterics, and Eames saw it too then, the red welts of blood that were slowly sipping out from her skin, as if someone or something had taken a claw to it.

“It hurts!” She looked at Eames pleadingly on the verge of tears, as the scratches on her arms multiplied and turned nastier. “Make it stop!”

Eames didn’t know what to do other than an attempt to scatter the salt all around Kim. A wild howl reverberated within the room. And the scratches appeared to stop, but then the rest of the space began clattering again.  

“Run,” Eames said, giving Kim a hard shove which finally jolted her back to her wits.  

Kim rushed out of the kitchen, Eames following soon after, hands still on his salt shaker as the clashing sound of toppling pans and pots chased after him. Eames cursed under his breath, with the ongoing commotion tonight, he felt quite certain that whatever rapport he’d managed to build with his neighbour over the past few months had been utterly destroyed. And in the months ahead he would once again be on the receiving end of the silent treatment typically reserved for newbies.

They ran out of his flat. Kim running ahead barefooted, while Eames paused just a moment to grab his phone and quick dialed Arthur. A _ding_ caught his attention, and he looked up from his phone to see Kim scrambling into the lift. And at that exact moment, Arthur’s words echoed in his head

****

**_For future references -_ **

 

“Kim! No!”

Kim looked up from the number pad dazedly, at Eames, then all around her, eyes widening as if she’d just awoken from deep slumber to find herself in the sequel of another nightmare.

“Get out of the bloody lift!”

****

**_Always treat an encounter with a ghost like an encounter with any natural disaster._ **

 

She knew she had to get out from the metallic cage. Yet the moment she tried to run, something tripped her and onto the ground she fell. It hurts. Her hands, her knees. Everything hurts. But she knew she had to get back on her feet. There was something though. Something pulling at her feet, dragging her down whenever she tries to stand. Something strong. And she could not shake it off.

But Kim is no fucking quitter. Always picked herself back up even when those naysayers and haters threatened to bring her down. She started crawling then, closer and closer towards the door. Eames was right outside. He made a grab for her hand. His warmth was as usual, an encouraging presence. He reeled her towards him, hands never letting go despite the obvious fear in his eyes at the shadow clawing at her feet.

_Just a bit more…_

_Great, her body was out the lift._ The pilates and yoga classes were all worth it, if only for this exact moment when she had to run from a ghost.

 _Okay just the hips and the legs left…_ Kim dreaded to think of how all these bruises would look on screen.

****

**_Always leave your belongings behind and -_ **

 

Kim can do this. She knew she can.

There was a sound then, a cackle beside her ear. 

Like a breeze.

 

_whoosh_

 

The elevator slammed shut with a sickening crunch.

**Never**

**ever**

**take**

**the**

**elevator**

**...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, i am not fond of lifts and high building. so many asian horror movies take place in lifts. And don't remind me of mirrors... But i didn't come up with this idea, this plot line is directly ripped off the original. Which i thought was superb and i simply cannot think of a better way to change or omit it from this AU story, even though i try not to stick too close to the original. 
> 
> btw. It's also the hungry ghost festival right now. So the next few updates will be slower.   
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghost_Festival


	9. Chapter 9

It had been a long and tortuous two hour meeting discussing wall paints and the best cardinal direction to position a potted bamboo and a crystal fountain to boost a wealthy bsinessman’s media empire. Yet contrary to spirit possession, consulting on Feng Shui was still pretty much a cakewalk and it definitely raked in more than enough cash for Arthur to endure the constant eye rolls from some award winning interior designer his client had hired. 

When he’d finally made a hasty exit via the elevator after convincing both designer and client to bin the idea of a black and white color theme (it’s an office, not a funeral parlour), it was already close to eight, and Arthur had missed not just dinner, but also a whole backlog of missed calls from Eames and more surprisingly, from Mal. 

He stared at the screen, cautious of it, wondering whether he had done anything to piss her off this past week, and was he suicidal enough to call her back if he did. His aunt’s mood had always been as turbulent as the Nordic sea, and Arthur was in no mood, at eight, for any dressing down even as wellintentioned as they might have been. 

At least not without first checking through her messages because Arthur really had no clue what he’d done. 

_ Maybe the old man had finally kicked the bucket, _ he hoped. But alas, no. The last message from Mal had been a cryptic note to merely  _ check the news _ , which was one of the easiest homework from her ever, especially with the sixty-meter-wide LED wall right outside the lobby, streaming a twenty-four hour loop of the local cable news which was strangely drawing a pretty decent size crowd this time on the night.u 

It didn’t take long to find out why -   _ Vlogger Dahlia Kim, dead in freak elevator accident at twenty-eight. _

 

* * *

 

Eames was not picking up his call. He was not at his luxurious high-rise apartment which now crawled with a host of paparazzi, random-looking busybodies, and some weirdo holding placards with ‘ _ I love Eames’  _ in purple glitter. His own lawyer had no idea where the man had ambled off to once the police had released him after his statement, and neither did his personal assistant. Even Mal, with her network of contacts, asked for some time to track the producer down.

So it came as a huge surprise when Arthur reached the door of his studio apartment and found Eames sitting dazedly next to it. 

_ How did you get here?  _ The question laid at the tip of his tongue. But Eames beat him to it. 

“Kim’s dead,” he said, sounding nothing at all like the cheerful man in those videos of his. 

Arthur took in the haunted look in his eyes, the pallor of his skin, wearing what must had been the same shirt he wore at the scene of the accident. The patches of blood faded to a dark brown and blended into the background of the prints. It was a wonder that none of Arthur’s neighbor nor his security had called the cops on him yet. 

“I know. Let’s get you inside.” Now was not a time for questions. Not with Eames so obviously falling apart at the seams. 

He ran him a hot bath, and handed him a shirt which he thought might fit. But as he was about to leave, a hand tugged on his sleeve with a hint of urgency. There was no exchange of words, but from the trembles in his hands, Arthur understood the request anyway. He then spent the most awkward fifteen minutes of his life, standing guard right in the bathroom as a grown man stripped down mechanically and scrubbed himself clean. 

There wasn’t any spare bed, Arthur never had friends close enough to show up unexpectedly and crash a night at his home. There was a spare couch though, but judging from how Eames had already snuggled himself under the comforter, eyes closed and breathing mellowed, it would be too cruel of Arthur to get him to move. 

Which was how Arthur himself ended up on the couch slurping on his favorite brand of cup noodle as he checked the news and pieced the events together bit by bit. Dahlia’s death was quickly becoming a contagion of epic proportion. There were already talks of lawsuits against groups ranging from the the building management to the elevator company. Her past videos were drawing clicks and so was her last featured episode of Eames’s show. At one point in time, the site even went down due to the traffic.  

_ ‘Your client had a visitor’, _ his phone buzzed with a message from Mal who had managed to bribe her way into Eames’ house. 

It was Candice Brown. Arthur had no doubts about it. 

All would have been fine in another week once the Reapers had processed the paperwork and dragged her back down to the underworld. Yet, Candice had made her first killing tonight, and all bets were now off. As sympathetic as he had been for the girl’s short-lived existence, rules were rules. And Arthur had no more qualms subduing her, even if it meant destroying her soul. 

He looked over the wards carved onto the floors, and doubled checked his cache of talismans. Unlike the modest arsenal of cross and holy water of a priest, Arthur always hated the fact that his branch of exorcism often required a whole lot more preparation and tools. The cleanup were often the worse part. He’d heard of accounts from lesser practitioners of having to scrub pig’s blood out of ruined carpets, and finding rice grains in cracks and crevices in every part of the house. And that’s just - nope.

The techniques of the River’s family drew more energy from its users, but eliminated entirely the need to deal with animal blood and farm produce. Of course there’s always the accompanying risk of users drawing down on their own lifespan, but that would never be a problem. Not for Arthur anyway.  

He retrieved a smoke from the side table, staring at the sleeping figure on his bed. The trap had been set. 

All he need now was a bait.


	10. Chapter 10

Eames woke to a pair of cold hands running beneath his shirt and Arthur River’s face hovering right above his. The man had lost his suit jacket, vest and tie. With his sleeves rolled back and his forearms bare, it felt as if Arthur was in his most undressed state anyone had ever seen.

“Play along would you?”

It spoke volumes of Eames weariness, when he could only utter a confused “what?” as his shirt was pulled over his head and tossed aside. Arthur said nothing more, as he traced his hands down Eames throat, chest, then slowly down the sides to his hips. His touch would have been exhilarating in another time, welcomed even, had it been in a different situation. But with Kim’s death not even a day gone, Eames just couldn’t… with whatever this was leading to.

“What are you doing?” He whispered hoarsely, and shifted back against the sheets. Sleep was beginning to clear from his mind, but the clarity only made Eames more confused than ever. Whatever Arthur’s intention had been, it wasn’t what Eames had thought. Arthur’s actions felt distracted, feigned, pausing awkwardly in its seduction that made it obvious that whatever his attention was on, it most definitely wasn’t on Eames really.

And then it hit Eames.

“Don’t.” He said, and made a grab for Arthur’s hand, keeping it still. His voice sounded panicked and fearful to his own ears, and the tremors - Eames couldn’t keep them at bay. Not with what he had seen that night; the blood; the screams; Kim’s body crushed in two.

“No more ghost,” he pleaded.

But ever since the first time he’d laid eyes on him, Eames knew that Arthur had always been one hardhearted bastard. He did offer Eames one way out though.

“Close your eyes,” he said, brushing a hand over Eames’ face and over his eyes. “If you are scared, close your eyes.”

Eames let the darkness washed over him, swept along with Arthur’s voice. Like a lullaby. “This is not my style, but she’s not biting...” Then just as sudden, there was a brief touch of something soft pressed against Eames’ lips and he gasped, tasting the faint familiar flavors of vanilla in the air between them. But only for a brief moment before the dreaded prickle of chilliness ran down his spine, sending his hairs on their ends.

A soft bell chimed and he could feel Arthur’s lip curled into a smile.

“She’s here.”

 

* * *

 

In the short amount of time since he’d last seen her, Candice Brown had an unfortunate face lift. Her features were beyond recognition. Her auburn hair was tangled and messy, framing limply down her face like overgrown leaves of a willow tree. Her lips were curled into a perpetual snare, and the tips of her fangs protruded upwards. She looked like one of those oni mask Arthur had once seen in Japan. Jealousy did not sit well with her at all.

And all of this, Arthur thought with a wince, for a man who had never noticed her feelings, and now that she’d caused the death of Dahlia, would never come to reciprocate it.

The only silver lining to this messed up set of circumstances, was that Eames had taken up on Arthur’s advice and kept his eyes closed. No woman should be made to look bad in front of her crush, as unrequited as it might had been.

“You should have left when you had the chance,” Arthur said, as he stepped away from the bed and sauntered slowly to the poltergeist, making sure to stand outside the boundaries of the wards. “Let the Reapers take you. Go reincarnate. Why so hung up on a single mortal?”  

It was a rhetoric question which Candice Brown wasn’t keen to answer beyond huffed gnarls. Or more likely, wasn’t capable of answering given how far down the ends she had gone.

“He’s mine,” she spit. “Mine, mine, mine!” Her speech; her appearance; it felt as if she was no longer in possession of her humanity.  If only she could listen to what Arthur was saying and ground herself back to her senses. Then perhaps she could still be spared.

“Not yours. He is his own man,” Arthur said solemnly. “And you’re dead. If you ever had feelings for him, you have to let him go. The dead should not walk with the living.”

For a moment, Arthur thought he saw something akin to awareness flickering over her eyes. But it was only a naive illusion. As Candice leaped for him, claws raised menacingly in the air, Arthur knew she was too far gone to be redeemed. He muttered a string of words in a single breath and felt the air around them drew thin. As the final sound died in his throat, strings of lights glowed in the air and all at once, the lines of threads sprung onto Candice, wounding coils after coils on her arms and legs, holding her back and binding her claws in the air, inches away from his heart.

There was a sharp gasp from behind. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Eames’ eyes wide open, shoulders up and backing hastily against the headboard. Arthur instinctively shifted to stand between them both. He wasn’t sure who he was shielding against, Candice from Eames or Eames from his nightmare. These distracted thoughts, however briefly, weakened his hold on the wards.

A loud snarl, and the sound of ripping threads. He felt the claws before he’d seen them, digging so deep into his chest that he had to bite his lips to hold back the scream that was threatening to leave. Pain, though inconsequential it might be, always burst forth fresh and poignant.

He didn’t bother to halt the claws, preferring instead to get a head start on the complicated verse he needed to sing. That did not mean he couldn’t feel every squeeze bearing down on his heart. Nearing the end, the threads burned brighter, reflecting the growing fear in its eyes, and for a moment, it made her look human again. Made it felt human even, as it opened its mouth to screech, “You! Impossible. What are you? ”

Her question was drowned by a whirl of wind, as the talismans fluttered in the air and plastered themselves onto the spirit. There was a burst of light, and a ear-piercing wail. Exorcism hardly took place in his house, but it was a good thing that Mal had convinced him to pay the extra for soundproofing his walls.

It only took a second for the light spectacle to end, and the paper scattered away harmlessly onto the ground. There was hardly any trace of the spirit having ever been in his room, except for the red script which appeared on the piece of talisman lying on the place where the spirit last stood.

Arthur picked it up gingerly and folded it into his shirt pocket.

“What the heck was that?” Eames voiced up then, sounding thankfully still sane if not a little hysterical. Arthur had heard of others having trouble collecting payments from people driven insane by their paranormal problems.

Even without the pounding headache, it was still too complicated to give a play by play, so he only cut to the core, “Candice Brown had been dealt with.”

“That’s it?”

Arthur nodded, digging his fingers into the palm of his hands as he felt the hunger coursed through him. But once Eames’ main concern was settled,his attention drew back onto Arthur himself, in particularly the chest. “You’re bleeding.” he said breathlessly like he was about to faint.

“Go to sleep, Mr Eames,” Arthur said and without bothering to check on the producer, made a grab for his lighter and locked himself in the bathroom.

He made himself comfortable on the floor beside the bathtub, and unbuttoned his shirt which was irreversibly ruined. It was a shame. He loved the shirt, maybe he should charge it back to Eames. The punctures on his chest were still bleeding, and it never failed to amaze Arthur, after considering everything, that he would ever bleed.

He wondered what would happen if he’d ever let himself bled drained of blood.

Mal might cry.

Arthur could never do that to her, which was why he stretched to reach for the bag of tobacco stashed in the cabinet. His hands trembled a little as he retrieved the talisman out from his shirt, the one with the red script. As he rolled the paper into a smoke, he tried not to think of auburn hair and freckles. Candice Brown was gone the moment her soul began to taint. If left alone, it would have killed Eames, and rot further till it was nothing but a festering pool of darkness.

He lit the paper, letting the blend of vanilla and cinnamon washed over him. He took a lungful of smoke, feeling immensely better as his hunger subsided and his skin knitted.

His head fell back. His eyes closed.

The wispy tendrils wafted into the night.

 

* * *

 

Eames wasn’t asleep when Arthur was done showering. He was speaking on his phone in hushed tones, head turned towards the window. Had his attention been on Arthur, he would have noticed that despite the bloodied shirt, there had been no visible scars.

Arthur pulled on a shirt, the call appeared to end, and his secret was safe.

“She’s missing,” Eames said, staring at his phone in confusion, before flickering his eyes up to look straight into Arthur’s.

“Kim’s body is missing.”

 

**End of arc 1**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: bad grammar  
> But finally, arc one is over!! So is my holiday. Let's see how it will work over the next few weeks.


	11. Lee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story took place some time after arc 1.  
> Due to the fallout from Dahlia Kim’s death, Eames had to vacate his original flat and is now staying in Arthur’s studio apartment instead.

Trekking uphill through a wooded path wasn’t quite what Lee had envisioned when she applied for this job with the studio. Sure, she was still down in the dirtbin of the show producing industry, barely a foot in and crawling her way out from trash, but even then, she had expected something menial, like editing or buying coffee; not trailing at the back of an overly eager show producer hunting for some purportedly haunted boarding school in the middle of nowhere. 

Her new boss, Eames-no-first-name, had cultivated a bit of a reputation lately in show business. No one could decide if that man was a true genius or a crazy weirdo, and the verdict was still out. When Lee first saw his videos, she had thought him brillant. The way he captured the blue orange skyline of the Tibetan highlands - the serenity of the fields and rolling hills? Lee could wax poetry and love letters to those scenes. But now that she’s working for him, her opinion of him was being swayed increasingly to the latter. 

Guy was batshit crazy. 

_ And damned _ . She should have read the fine prints before signing the contract. Should have known there must be some shit going on when the bulk of the team before her, just suddenly up and left. 

It was plain weird for people to quit a show which had a somewhat epic run. Or at least highly raved, until it was cancelled prematurely. But everyone sort of agreed that even the cancellation had been epic. And no one really faulted Eames for the short stint, not when it was obvious that Dahlia Kim’s death was the main bummer that drove it to an early grave.

Freak elevator accident, the reports said. Body was chopped in half; and then even crazier, went missing from the morgue in the dead of the night. All of a sudden, her face was on the news everywhere. Even freaking BBC. Even now, the police was still scrounging her fan mails for some cray-cray fans with necrophilia. 

But Dahlia’s death, as unfortunate as it was, did wonders for the ratings. Almost everyone between the age of twelve to thirty-five had tuned in to that shophouse episode which captured her last appearance before her untimely demise. Honestly no one would bat an eyelash if the network executives decide to bankroll on her misfortune. But it seemed that some guy up there had a conscience with a capital “C” and shut down the production for good. Or at least that was what everyone had thought.  

Now one month later, the show, revived and rebranded -  **_Somewhere’s_ ** _ haunting tonight _ , was back on the table and the hashtag was trending with not even an episode filmed. 

Lee had been proud to make it into the production team until she realized she’d only make the cut because there were hardly any other takers even when the network was literally throwing  money at them. 

Apparently, Eames was notorious for being some sort of trouble magnet - and not the normal drugs and gangs related kind. Word was, whatever trouble the producer was deep in, had supernatural roots.  _ Like demonic possessions. _ Yep that’s right.  _ Possessions.  _ And Lee did not know what to make of these accusation. Although she took issues with Eames’ crazier ideas and untenable production schedule, he was still a cut better than some other shit she had worked with. 

Take their hike for example, Eames himself actually helped with the baggage and equipment, when most other producer would have asked to be piggybacked up the steps if they could. 

And while Lee wasn’t usually into dicks, she couldn’t help but noticed those wiry arms when Eames handed her a bottle of coke, then proceeded to lug that box Lee had been struggling with right out of her arms and onto broad shoulders, taking two steps a time and jumping ahead of the group. 

Hot damned. That was some demonic temptations right there. Perhaps Eames’ only fault was to be so sought after that his opponent had to resort to these pathetic lies to discredit him?

If only she wasn’t so distracted checking out his ass, she might have been able to avoid kicking over some vase that was placed beside the pathway. She winced as the vase rolled down slowly step by step, and finally with one last valiant bounce into the air, ended its getaway on the ground, shattered into a hundred little pieces. 

“Shit,” Lee looked back at the spot where the vase had been. And right there, partially covered by tall grasses was a stone tablet with some kind of writings worn over with age and moss. It looked like some kind of memorial for someone. “God I am so sorry,” she muttered under her breath and cursed at her own clumsiness. Then looking at the bottle of coke in her hand, she shrugged, unscrewed the cap, poured the content on the grounds beside and left it in the place where the vase was. It might not be a good substitute, but she hoped it still at least count for something. 

A gust of wind blew, messing up her hair and sending the leaves around into an echo of rustling. As she swept her hair off her face, she thought she heard someone calling for her. 

From far ahead, Yusuf was shouting at her to hurry up. 

Lee blinked, and jogged along.

 

* * *

 

There was already someone in the school. Beautiful three piece suit cladded on yet another great ass. He has his back facing them, but Eames appeared to recognize him anyway. 

“Arthur!” 

The man turned, and Lee’s eyebrows shot up. It was rare for her to question her sexuality twice in a single day, but suit-guy actually looked good enough to be on television, not prowling alone in the abandoned shell of some god-forsaken boarding school. 

_ Maybe he was the new host to replace Dahlia? _ She thought, as her producer dropped whatever he was holding onto the floor, ran forward and pulled suit-guy into a tight embrace. 

“Arthur, so this is where you’ve been. I’ve missed you so much. The flat felt so empty and scary without you these past few nights.” 

Okay, that was interesting. She turned towards Yusuf questioningly, but the cameraman only shrugged and looked away, preferring instead to set up his camera. Perhaps the producer might not be as straight as they had thought. 

For a brief moment, Arthur, appeared to be genuinely surprised at being confronted with a sudden armful of the producer. But then the creases on his forehead deepened. 

“Hands off,” he frowned, extracting himself brusquely from grappling arms before straightening his jacket. “What are you guys doing here?” 

“I’ve already messaged you. I am chasing down a lead for my new show. I heard this school is haunted.”

“And you chose to come here knowing that?”

“Well, it’s being torn down soon and I won’t be able to get any footage after it’s been demolished, won’t I?” 

“And you guys let him talked you into it?” Arthur asked, quirking an eyebrow in Yusuf’s direction. 

“My contract has a clause that ties my pay to the ratings. And it’s a haunted school, not a war zone. If shit hits the fan, we can always drop Eames as the bait,” the cameraman said impassively while the rest of the older crews nodded their heads, as Eames gaped at them. 

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. “Anyway you guys need to leave. It’s unsafe. Especially if there’s someone like you on the team.” He emphasized with a not so gentle poke right in Eames’ chest. But the producer only smiled.

“But I have this,” he said wriggling his left hand. There’s a gleaming silver band wrapped around his ring finger. “You gave it to me, remember?”

Arthur frowned. “Why is it on your ring finger?”

“It’s the only finger that fits.” 

“Couldn’t you have worn it around your neck or something.” 

“But then I might lose it. You know I can’t live without it.”

They stared at each other then. Suit-guy still frowning, and the producer not at all bothered by the frowns being tossed at him.  

“The wards on a single ring would not be strong enough to protect you from everything.”

“Which is why I planned to stick with you to the end of the world.”

Lee wasn’t sure she comprehended this conversation between them. But judging from the blase reaction from the rest of the crew, this bantering seemed to be a common occurrence. Whatever relationship Eames had with suit-guy, as long as it did not affect her work and life, it was honestly none of her business. 

Still, she couldn’t help but envied them a little. After all that was some pretty strong vows, and Lee wished them luck in their marriage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the comments!! and kudos!!  
> love u guys!  
> Forgive me if i take a while to reply. I am still thinking of what to say to some of them  
> Anyway my semester is starting again, this time in jp.  
> Not sure how bad the workload will be, but i hope to be able to continue working on this story.  
> There's still a whole lot of it to go.


	12. Eames

People who knew Eames tend to describe him as a sort of charmer. Likable, engaging, but whose words sometimes ring too insincere to be taken seriously. Yet Eames wasn’t being charming when he said he missed Arthur. 

When he’d first moved in with him, it was out of sheer desperation. He had begged and pleaded and promised to pay an obscene amount of rent just to get a key to Arthur’s flat. But a month of shared living quarters; a month of curt morning hellos; and a month of seeing Arthur in his pjs, eyes squinting blearily at the espresso machine while waiting for his two morning cups of black; that sort of grew on Eames. The normalcy. At least until Arthur had to go on some business trip and the nights suddenly felt too long and miserable without him around to chase away the nightmares. 

So he couldn’t stop himself from grinning even when Arthur gave him the stink-eye at the embrace and brushed him away. “You guys need to leave,” Arthur said in a tone that did not broker any negotiations. Still Eames was going to try and worm one in anyway. Especially since he knew now that despite the harsh, prickly exterior, Arthur was downright soft in the middle, like a sea urchin. 

“But we can’t,” he said, giving his best impression of wide-eyed kittens whose pictures Arthur so often scrolled at while waiting for his bread to toast. “We need to film something at the very least. No footage means no episode. And no episode means no pay. It’s been a month since we’ve last produced anything. We need this new show to be a success."

He looked around him, and spotted some heads nodding. And as usual, his buddy had his back. 

“He’s not lying you know. My house is already running out of cat food.”  _ That’s right Yusuf, lay it on real thick. _

Eames had the past month to observe Arthur’s quirks and tells. The way those eyes of his drooped and his lips thinned when he had once again lost to one of Eames’ whims.

“Fine, take your footage, whatever,” he said. “But leave before sundown.”  

“That’s in like, two hours?” Eames spluttered, while making a show of looking at his watch. “We can’t get enough footage in just two hours.”

“Of course not,” Arthur sighed, his face feigning a somewhat sympathetic look before hardening right next second. “Not if you’re wasting time standing around here. Two hours. Then get the hell out.” With those parting words, he turned on his heels and left Eames pouting at his retreating back. Well their relationship was still a work in progress, and he would wear Arthur down someday.

“You heard the man,” he addressed his crews with a snap of his finger. “Let’s get down to work.”

 

* * *

 

Not much had changed between the concept of this new show and its predecessor, except for the conspicuous lack of a new host. 

It wasn’t that they couldn’t find anyone, but Eames just couldn’t bring himself to fill Kim’s position with some random aspiring reality-star-wannabes so soon after her death. As it was, Eames himself had to be the one to fill that gaping hole she left behind.

Although it had been some time since he stood in front of a camera, as they got rolling, it felt as if he had never left. “What’s the best way to check if some place is being haunted?” he grinned, directing the question right into the lens before revealing the equipment in his hands. 

“I know this looks like some ancient technology,” he said, tearing at the foil packaging and slotting the cartridge into the back of his most recent purchase. “I mean who uses Polaroid these days? But believe me when I say this advice came from a real expert. Some guy I know. Always wears a suit. And this frown,” he scrunched his face into a hilarious mimicry for the sake of the camera. “According to him, spirits are apparently best captured on film. So if you ever need to stay the night at some rundown motel, always bring a portable one along. One never knows what else might be there in the room.” 

He licked his lips, and pressed on the button, there was a tell-tale click of the cartridge falling into place. “Tada,” he waved the dispensed cover with a flourish to no one in particular. “All good to go. Now we just have to find a particularly cold spot. There!”

He pointed at the grand stairway right in the middle of the lobby with its polished wooden banister. “That place look all nice and spooky. Perfect place for a ghost to be at.” Actually not really, but Eames just thought it would be a nice place to start. He pointed the shutter at a random spot, and after a pointed wink into the camera, pressed on the button. 

There’s something about film photography which reminded Eames of those good old days when one never knew how the photos will turn out. Disappointment; surprise; the anticipation over whether he’d ever manage to capture that single perfect moment. 

The film was pitch black when it first rolled out of the camera, and Eames flicked it impatiently in the air. Over his shoulders, the camera zoomed in close into his hand in anticipation. In the editing stage, this would likely be where they insert some creepy music. 

Eventually the colors seeped in, brown and white, and for a moment it felt as if everyone in the room collectively breathed a sigh of relief.

“Looks all clean,” Eames said as he pointed the exposed photo right into the direction of the lens, letting Yusuf take a close up shot of it. “That was quite stupid innit? I mean ghost can move through walls. Why would they even need to use the stairs right?”

He passed the photo to someone off screen and directed the Instax at yet another odd spot. 

“Doesn’t this looks like a figure?” Someone suddenly said, and Eames' finger immediately paused on the shutter button. It was the new punk girl in the team, the one with the piercings the pixie cut and the cool sounding name.

“What did you say?” Eames eyes narrowed, as Lee mouth formed into the shape of an ‘O’. “Sorry, I know we are not supposed to talk when we are filming. But don’t you think this looks like the profile of a person?” She held up the film and pointed at a particular spot. 

Eames stalked towards her, staring keenly into the film, in particular, at the shadow in the corner. Lee was right, it indeed looked as if someone was leaning against the handrail:

“Take another one,” Yusuf quipped from behind the viewfinder and Eames arched an eyebrow at him. “Most likely it’s just a fluke. The lightning here is bad enough to cast those shadows. But you know how our audiences love suspense. We can edit a molehill out of that clip.”

Actually, that was a pretty decent point. And Eames rolled his eyes and pointed the camera back in the same spot. This time round, there was a palpable tension as they waited for the film to be ready. 

When the color appeared, someone gasped. There was now the distinct silhouette of a person staring into the Polaroid where none had been.

“Okay…”  Lee whispered. “Don’t you think the figure looks clearer?”

“Yeah...” Eames gulped. “I think that’s because it’s moving closer to us.”

“Right…” Yusuf murmured giving a gentle shove at Eames towards the direction of the stairs. “Take another picture.” 

“What? No! Are you out of your mind?”

“I am perfectly sane, thank you, and my very sane mind now tells me that our audience would beg to know what happens next. Come on Eames, do it for the ratings.” 

Yusuf said, eyes glinting with the fervor of someone who was expecting a huge payday down the road. Eames gaped at his friend. It was days like this which made him wonder whether Yusuf was actually a sleeper agent out to kill him.  

“You do it,” he shoved the Instax camera into Yusuf’s direction. “I can man the camera instead.”

“What? You know it won’t work on me, you are the one with the - ”  

The decision was taken out of their hand when the camera clicked, and a stray film fluttered face down onto the ground. 


	13. Arthur

_ The job stinks _ , Arthur thought. Crap pay, tedious work. Had the decision been in his hands, he would have rode straight back home, curled up in bed, and binged on Netflix after receiving that huge consulting paycheck in Vegas. But Mal had asked, and Arthur had been manhandled into far more unreasonable requests of hers before than one lousy job in the middle of the woods. 

So here he was, a hundred miles away from home, someone called his name, he turned around, and there was Eames, standing right over there like he own the fucking haunted school. 

Seriously, the producer was like goldfish poop and Arthur just couldn’t shake him off his tail. 

When Eames had begged to stay for the night after Kim’s death, Arthur, out of some charitable spirit, had agreed. But one night eventually led to the next and that dragged on for a week until one day, he finally noticed Eames’ personal mug by the kitchen sink, the nondescript cabin trolley stashed by the shoe cabin, and worse of all, the clean state of his apartment even after he’d been out late on almost all the nights prior. The trash was emptied, his clothes were safely laundered with the receipt of the Chinese Launderer by the street still attached, there was even a small herb garden by the window, and till now Arthur still had no idea how he’d have missed that. 

The only deterrence he could have introduced them, was to stipulate an absurd amount of rent which Eames somehow managed to cough up, and when Arthur re-did the math on his mortgage with the added income, the damage was done - Eames had successfully invaded his home like a cockroach infestation. 

Now it appeared he was trying to invade his work as well, turning up from nowhere with his merry bunch of idiotic crew. And cats or not, Arthur really ought to have kicked them all out. There was something to this job Arthur can’t put his finger on. That a low paying request had been accepted by the main branch, instead of the subsidiaries made it all the more intriguing. 

He frowned at the luopan* in his hands. The needle wobbled, but pointed South as it was supposed to. Weird.

 

* * *

 

There was some sort of commotion going on when he returned to the lobby. 

“What’s going on?” 

Yusuf, who, as usual, was busy filming whatever the hell was going down with the scene immediately lit up when he noticed him. “Great! You are finally here. Ease up boys, the expert is here.” 

The crowd in the center of the room scattered away, and the deplorable salmon shirt caught his eyes first before he’d finally notice its owner. Eames was struggling on the ground, arms and wrists bound haphazardly with masking tape and tackled down by two of his crews. Arthur raised his brows. He might have been wrong, but he was quite sure this wasn’t the direction the new show was going to take. 

“So we took this photo, and then Eames got really weird.” 

Arthur took a brief glance at the photo shoved in his face, of what was obviously a spirit captured on film and then back at Eames, with his bloodshot eyes and the pale greenish face. And the sigh came reflexively. The man really had a knack for getting himself into trouble. It was almost a talent really.

“A possession,” he muttered, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes. 

“Can you speak louder? Into the microphone perhaps. It would make our editing job easier.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes at the comment from one of the ADs. Television people. 

He lit his smoke and sauntered up to the trio, signaling for the two men to release Eames and step away. Eames grappled with the restraints on his hands, but his head shot up when he heard Arthur approaching. 

“This is not really my style...” Arthur said calmly as he suck in a breath of his cigarette. And it really wasn’t. But if he were to do the cleansing the proper way, it would have taken more tools and more time, none of which were available to him at this moment of short notice. 

He gripped Eames’ chin tightly and tilted his head up while the producer snarled at him. Ghastly  was really not a good look on the man. Or on anyone really. But work was work. And as he bent to exhale the smoke straight into Eames’ mouth, someone squealed in the background.  

Seriously, television people. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luopan is a type of geometric compass.  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luopan


	14. Eames

Eames woke up shivering. His hands felt clammy, and his shirt clung to his skin, soaked as if someone had dumped a bucket of water on him. Despite the chill, he was still sweating. 

“Bloody hell. What happened?” he rasped, head pounding like the aftermath of a bad trip. 

“You were possessed.” 

“No shit. By what?” 

“The guy in the photo. Don’t worry,” Yusuf gave him a thumbs up. “We got it all on film. Even that shotgun kiss.” 

“What?” Eames massaged his forehead with the heel of his palms. His wrists felt strangely sore and half of what Yusuf was saying didn’t make any sense. “What shotgun kiss?” 

That was when Yusuf gave him the coded bro look where he did the thing with his eyebrows, and then rolled his eyes in the direction of the well-cut figure smoking by the window. It took awhile for the message to sink in Eames still addled brain.  

_ What!  _ Eames mouthed in shock,  _ Arthur and me?  _ Yusuf nodded with a grin and a light pat on his camera. And that was exactly why he’d hire Yusuf even with that annoying attitude of his. Their female viewership was definitely going to explode for this season.  

“Somehow I am starting to get what you guys were saying even without hearing you.”

“That’s how show business work.” Eames grinned and picked himself up with a grunt. “Stick around long enough and we can have full debates with just facial and hand signals. In fact you are doing that right now with your face.” He waved a hand over Arthur’s perpetual frown which seemed to crease deeper. 

“You guys need to leave,” Arthur said blandly as he snuffed the butt out on the floor and, as usual, kept the stub in that portable silver case of his, instead of flicking it to some dark corner.   

“Don’t you want to know what your face says?”

“Deep regret.” Yup, that was kind of the vibe Eames was getting as well. He was about to comment on it when Arthur raised a warning finger. 

“Don’t,” he said, looked slightly annoyed at himself for getting pulled into the conversation. “You are awake, you have your footage. You no longer have any business here, now leave.” His finger redirected straight in the direction of the door. 

Eames glanced at his AD who shrugged, and handed him a bottle of water instead. Already he could see his crew was almost done packing. He must had been unconscious for a much longer time than he had thought if they had captured enough footage for an episode. 

“One more question,” he asked after a huge gulp of water. He didn’t even realize how thirsty he had been until then. Apparently being possessed was dehydrating. “Will you be back for dinner tonight?” 

“Highly unlikely.” Arthur responded without looking up from that funny looking compass of his and Eames pouted. “Text me anyway, or I will worry.” 

It could have been his imagination, but Arthur stilled before shifting to turn his back on him. Fine, fine, Eames could take the hint when he wasn’t wanted. 

“Okay people, time to leave, we’ve got an episode to edit!” He snapped his finger and plucked the trolley out of his AD’s hand. The old man had just pulled a shoulder muscle over the weekend, and his resistance was minuscule. 

“Thank god we are leaving, that was enough excitement for a day,” someone said as they were all packed and ready to leave. 

“Idiot, don’t jinx - ” 

Right at that moment, a chime swept through the foyer, and Arthur’s head shot up from his compass. “Get out,” he said with sudden urgency. “We have to get out now!” 

Somewhere in the distant came the distinct sound of a door slamming. Then another. And another. The AD was the first to react, brittle bones and pulled muscle notwithstanding, as he ran towards the door. Eames never knew that old man to be such a sprinter. 

He never made it out though, none of them did. The front door slammed shut, leaving behind the stinging sound of its echoes and the sinking feeling of dread. 

 

* * *

 

“The door won’t open,” Eames grunted as he tried the handle one more time. “Should we try some other exit?” 

“I would advise against it,” Arthur raised his compass towards them, and Eames had no idea what he was supposed to be observing other than a needle which was just spinning round and round.  

“The fields have become erratic. It’s not safe to wander around.” 

“There’s no signal on any of our phones. But guess what, the camera’s still functioning.” Eames and everyone else in the room glared at Yusuf who was already in process of setting up his camera. The man merely shrugged his shoulders, “Just saying if we never made it out alive, someone may find this tape and know the sacrifices we made for our show. Maybe we’d get an honorable mention at the Emmys.” 

“Yeah but posthumously!!” one of the younger guys within the team looked on the verge of a breakdown. “I should have listened to mom, the money wasn’t worth it.” 

“Calm down, no one is dying,” Eames raised both arms in an attempt to placate his team. “We still have Arthur with us remember? He can get us out of here.” 

Immediately eight pair of hopeful eyes turned in Arthur’s direction whose expression turned pensive. “If I were outside of the school, yes. But since I’m in here, with you guys…” 

“So we are doomed?” 

“I won’t jump to any conclusion without first seeing some evidence.” 

Eames really had to hand it to Arthur, even in the face a predicament, the man was able to remain impassively cool. 

“What evidence? Oh god, I have seen an episode like this before. We are all trapped in a haunted school, and only one of us would kill the evil spirit and make it out alive. Most likely the final girl.” Eames’ eyes reflexively fell on Lee, standing by the corner face-pale and arms crossed, but so did everyone else’s. It was then that Eames realized a much bigger issue.

Bloody hell, did they subconsciously only hire a single female for the whole team? That’s not right. If Eames got out alive, he would definitely have to look into righting the gender ratio. 

“Well… she does have the look,” old man AD commented offhandedly after giving a once over at the piercings and black tank. “But based on my experience working in this industry, usually there will be another guy who stick right till the end before making the final sacrifice.” That was the dividing comment, and some people looked at Arthur, while the others at Eames. 

“Maybe they are just red herrings,” Yusuf quipped. “Remember Chris Hemsworth. We all thought he was going to make it. If I were to bet on it, I would say Ben would make the hell out of here alive. He’s the only black dude here.” 

“Geez thanks, I mean your odds aren’t too bad yourself. You do count as a token minority.” And they fist bumped.

“Everyone just stop talking,” it appeared that Arthur finally had enough. “You,” he pointed at Yusuf. “You had that footage of the possession from before don’t you. Show it to me.” 

Eames was used to seeing himself on screen, but not like this. The lifeless eyes, the snarl. The person on screen was wearing his skin, but it wasn’t him. He had absolutely zero recollection from the takeover. And the realization was terrifying.”

“Here,” Arthur tapped on the pause button. “Whoever’s possessing you was trying to say something.” 

The replayed the clip slower, but all they could make out was gibberish. 

“Play it in reverse.” 

This time they received the message loud and clear. 

  
**No.  ONE. leaves.  bEfore. SunRise** . 


	15. Lee

“So all we have to do, is to stick it out and wait till the sun rises,” Eames’ tone was cheery but the sweat beading on his forehead failed to spark the tiniest bit of confidence in Lee or anybody else. 

“Is that even possible?” Ben asked, seeking confirmation from Eames’ partner. 

“For me, yes. For you guys,” he gave them an assessing look, and Lee’s back straightened in what she hoped conveyed the appearance of a survivor. “- maybe.” 

“Surely it couldn’t be that hard.” Someone quipped with a strained chuckle. “I mean what could happen?” 

“That is exactly the kind of statement that will come around and bite you in the ass.” Everyone nodded in silent agreement. If there was death pool going round now, Mr. idiotic-Jinx will surely be ranked at the very top, right after their producer. 

Arthur sighed. “Look, the boundaries between the spiritual and mortal world are fuzzy right now. And that makes the laws of physics more malleable. Anything could happen.”

“Like?” 

Arthur rolled his eyes again and Lee cringed unwittingly. It was weird, but Arthur speaks with the kind of authority that made people feel stupid. Which, if one thought about it, must have been a necessary skill set in his line of work. Otherwise Lee couldn’t have imagined how he could ever get people to listen to these mumbo jumbo metaphysics stuff.

“For one, it could be more conducive for poltergeist disturbance. Like sending the chandelier down on our heads and killing us.” 

All heads shot up at once. The lamp was indeed crooked to the side at a weird angle, and Lee scrambled hastily away to a much safer distance, as did the rest. 

“Another great example, a spirit could possess one of us and have him kill the rest.” 

“Question,” Eames raised his hand as his crew scattered away from him noticeably. “Why are we assuming that something is always out to kill us? I mean, it could be a prank...” His question drifted off and he swallowed uneasily under Arthur’s steely glare. 

“When a building is demolished, what do you think happened to its original tenants?” 

“They leave?” 

“Exactly,” Arthur acknowledged Ben with a pointed nod, whose dark skin flushed rather uncharacteristically then averted his eyes from Eames’ miffed expression. 

“When a place like this is being torn down, every single tenant starts looking for a way out. And you guys came wandering in carelessly with a ghost magnet.”

Even though Lee wasn’t fully aware of the backstory, it was quite obvious who that accusatory statement was meant for judging by the direction of the glare Arthur sent. 

“Oh come on, it’s not like we are holding them back. If they are leaving, the door is literally right there. They can’t be staying to watch us film?” 

“That’s the problem,” Arthur snapped. “They can’t leave. Not without finding a replacement.”

Replacement? Lee thought with a frown, she didn’t know what that means, but she hated the sound of that term. 

“People who die from violent deaths, sometimes imprint on their place of death so strongly that it traps them from leaving. It’s like being stuck in a hole without a rope, and the only way out is to pull someone else down, a replacement, and climb on their shoulder.”

Eames’ face noticeably blanched, and he pointed a hesitating finger at himself questioningly, and Arthur nodded at his guess. “What happens to the new guy then?”

“What do you think?” 

“He gets trapped, and the poltergeist make it off with his - ” Eames gasped, “lively body.”

Arthur snorted. “Body snatching is extremely rare. He just have to trap you here spiritually, your flesh can rot away for all he cared.” 

“That’s a damn waste innit? I have a good body.” 

Lee couldn’t help but rake her eyes over that body in question. As she looked up from her inspection, she noticed Arthur doing the same, their eyes caught, and though he tried to hide it, the tips of his ears seemed to flush just a little. Lee didn’t understand why Arthur felt the need to be discreet, Eames did have a nice build going on, everyone could appreciate that. 

“So simple solution,” Yusuf finally looked up from his viewfinder and spoke. “We just have to leave Eames behind and everyone else can leave.” 

There was collective silence as everyone held their breath. Lee could tell that some other people were toying with the exact same thought as well. Hell, she did. Eames might be her boss, but forgoing her pay was way better than forgoing her life.

“What the hell Yusuf - ”

“I don’t think it’s that easy. Do you remember the murders that happened here?” 

Oh. Murders. With an ‘s’. How could Lee forget, she was the one who pulled the source. 

Twenty five years ago, the janitor went on a psychotic spree slitting the throats of five students, the science teacher, before turning the blade on himself. 

Five kids, two adults, altogether seven deaths. 

There’s nine of them here. 

Simple math, only two could walk out alive.


	16. Arthur

Arthur hated that he was starting to get what this motley crew of television people were thinking even without outright words. It wasn’t just in the way their eyes shifted uneasily, darting discreet glances to their sides as if assessing the competition, the ways their feets shuffled like rabbits waiting to dart, the greater part of it was that some pop culture references were simply unavoidable.

“Stop that line of thought. All of you,” he ordered. “This isn’t Saw. Don’t go killing each other just yet.” 

It was easy to tell who had been thriving in the industry longer. Caught with their morbid imagination, some had the decency to be embarrassed, while others like the producer cameraman duo, feinted taking offense. As with most workplaces, the shameless always lasted longer. Television appeared no different. 

“Not all spirits trapped are vengeful. As a matter of opinion, I believe only one of them is responsible for this mess.” 

“The murderer.” If this was a trivia game show, Ben would be in the lead. At least he possessed common sense.

“Right. Which is why I don’t think this would end with Eames dead.”

“Excuse me, Eames is right here - ” Arthur waved him off, there’s still a lot of exposition left, and he hated to be interrupted. 

“Guy was a insane killer who murdered six people when he was alive. Now that he’s dead and without any promise of redemption, there’s nothing holding him back. You guys are prime meat for slaughter. If I were him, I wouldn’t stop at one when facing a buffet spread.”

Actually the imagery of Eames, stuffed with an apple in his mouth and spreaded out on the table, was somewhat appealing. Arthur quelled that disturbing thought. It’s the apple he thought, the producer spoke too much.

“If it’s just one dead spirit, can’t you get rid of him? Like Candice Brown?”

“Brown was an exception. I laid her a trap at my place, on my terms. Here?” Arthur gave a cursory glance at the surrounding, “I have no idea what kind of rules are at work here. Not to mention, I am not packed for an exorcism.” 

That was the hundred percent truth. Had Arthur known this trip would turn into an exorcism and had packed for the right tools, this whole farce would have been over in a matter of minutes. As it were, his lack of foresight meant that they had to seek other ways to last till daybreak. That would have been easy if Arthur were alone, but with all these additional dead weights… Sigh. 

He did a mental count of his remaining smoke, it had already been due for a refill from Mal, and with that previous fag used for the depossession, Arthur feared it insufficient till morning. 

“An exorcism?” A quavering voice spoke up. That young man had been silent since his last outburst and Arthur was glad that he seemed to be holding it together at the moment. “If its tools you need, Mom packed me some stuff.”

He was still trying to process that statement, when Eames spoke up, oddly flushed, “Well actually, here’s the thing… ”

It soon became obvious that everyone was kind of prepared for some kind of similar shit going down. Everyone except for that punk lady who stood-by awkwardly as the rest of them fetched out their arsenal of defensive “weapons”. 

Crucifix, the Bible, holy water - he looked over them disinterestedly. Those won’t work with Arthur, what’s with the differing beliefs and all. But it won’t hurt for the guys who own them to keep them on hand, faith had its purpose, and in the hands of the right believers, they might work. 

“What’s this?” He held up a bottle of grey substance. “Mountain ash,” Yusuf answered without missing a beat, while some other guy cursed, “Seriously? You watch that show?”

“Only the first three seasons.”

Arthur put the bottle back down again with an uncomprehending frown. Maybe the cameraman was wiccan or something. 

Something else caught his eyes then. Now, that’s interesting. He picked up the small wooded branch and stared curiously at the AD who offered it. 

“It’s not much,” The elderly man said with a tired smile and a shrug. “But I think it still counts for something.”

Arthur said nothing to that, and offered the branch back. He was right, it wasn’t much. 

In the end, all they had left was that huge bag of salt which Eames proudly presented. It wasn’t enough for a cleansing, but - “It might be helpful,” he grudgingly admitted while blatantly ignoring Eames pleased expression. 

“I could set up some sort of protection ward with that much salt.” 

“Thank god I bought a huge bag of it along didn’t I.” Eames said, apparently still fishing for compliments, which Arthur sure as hell wasn’t going to bite. He ignored him, and set down to work, scattering the salt in a circle around the crew. It didn’t take long for Eames to notice the oddity of his movements though. “Wait, why are you outside of the circle?”

“There’s still something I have to do.” That’s right Arthur, keep it short and simple and vague, and you might just be left alone. 

“Mmh… you ain’t here for an exorcism. That much is obvious.” Eames mused with the kind of voice he reserved for chasing down a particularly interesting lead, Arthur knew, because they’d been through that stage. It almost always ended with Arthur answering whatever the hell Eames wanted to know after a cascade of pestering. “What are you here for anyway?” 

Arthur stilled, weighing the options, before giving up and taking the easier route. 

“The other spirits trapped here,” he said dusting his hands free of salt and retrieving a small leather pouch from the inner pocket sewn into his jacket. 

“I was supposed to be their ride out.” He flipped the pouch wide open and showed it to Eames. In it sat a neat stack of paper dolls. Six in total.


	17. Eames

“Cute. Are those origami?” Eames’ hand reached out impulsively, but Arthur pulled away, and in a blink the pouch was gone, safely tucked into folds of that mysterious suit jacket. How many pockets does that thing had anyway? Eames counted only one when he sent them for laundry, but with the cigarette case and everything, that couldn’t have been right.

He withdrew his hands and rubbed them together awkwardly instead.

“So you were going to save those poor souls here? That’s your job?” He asked, keen to remain on topic. Arthur hardly talk about his work. Even if he did, it was only in the morning, when he was unguarded and weak to Eames’ goading. It wouldn’t surprise Eames if Arthur thought him annoying with his relentless barrage of questioning. But Eames had been thrown unsuspectingly into the deep end of the paranormal, and it might be a matter of survival to know things. Even ridiculous ones, like those tidbits on the Instax and the salt. 

“Pardon me, but why would anyone be invested in liberating trapped spirits?” The school wasn’t on prime land, and people barely batted an eye at its pending demise. Hiring Arthur to resettle any lingering souls sounded a lot like charity, especially given how costly his fees could be. 

“Beats me,” Arthur said, then after a slight considering pause. “But I think I just got my clue.” 

“Oh?” Eames raised an eyebrow, but his housemate only grunted noncommittally, and Eames knew to drop it. For now at least. 

“How were you going to get them out anyway?” 

“Getting them out is the easy part, I just have to convince them to possess the dolls.” There was something in the furrows between his brows that cued Eames to the unspoken ‘but’.  

“And the difficult part?”

That was when Arthur turned a mournful eye at Eames. “I have been looking for them even before you’d arrive, they weren’t exactly biting. It’s kind of annoying how they flock to you the moment you step in here.” 

“Hey now - ” Was Arthur seriously going to hold that over him? Eames wasn’t exactly reveling in his new found popularity with poltergeists. But per usual, his protest was waved off mid-sentence. 

“And with my compass practically non-functional here, it will be a long night.” 

“Maybe you can bring Eames along? He’s practically a ghost magnet.”

Eames head snapped back, and there was his AD looking wide-eyed and innocuous like he hadn’t been eavesdropping and hadn’t just suggested the most offensive idea ever. 

“Now, now let’s not be hasty - ” 

“No, it might be dangerous. It’s better if I do this alone.” Darned right.

“Considering his afflictions, it would actually be safer for him to stay beside you. At least you know how to handle it.” Crap, Arthur’s expression had turned pensive, and Eames was not liking his odds. 

“That’s right. If he stayed it’s more dangerous for us too.” 

“Guys this was supposed to be a private conversation and no one asked for your opinions,” he flipped a finger at Yusuf who merely shrugged. 

“We have go-pros. You can wear one on your head.” 

“Now why would I do that?”  

That’s when Yusuf rolled his eyes and raised his hands in the air in that bitchy way he thought conveyed exasperation or constipation, which was what Eames thought. 

“The footage remember? Ratings? It’s the only good thing that will come from this shitty situation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying to squeeze in any amount of writing i can do in a day. Might have an upcoming part time job soon.


	18. Arthur

There was a cackle through the frequency and ten fingers immediately dug deep into his upper arms, twisting painfully into a deadly grip. Arthur winced and paused in his steps to pry them loose while Eames looked at him abashedly as he released his hold. 

“Hello… Harrlow,” Yusuf’s voice, or at least what sounded like Yusuf’s voice, cut across the fizzing static, and Eames scrambled to retrieve the walkie talkie from the side of his belt. “We’re here,” he said.

Funny how the device was miraculously working when Arthur’s much simpler compass had failed. The reception was fuzzy and the static in the feedback was giving him a headache. But given how astray the day had went, Arthur would take his blessings any form, any way, perfunctory communication notwithstanding. 

“Seconzzz floor student’s bathzoommm?”

“Where else?” According to the research pulled out by the television crew that was where one of the bodies was found. That made it a likely cold spot. 

“Seen anythinn?”

“Not yet.” A pause and a pointed look at Arthur who shrugged and gave the door a gentle kick.  
The hinges were loose and rusty from years of neglect, but still it wobbled open with a soft groan. “We were just about to head in.” With another click, the buzzing in the air abruptly subsided. 

The smell was musty and damp, and the tiled walls crawled with a nasty outbreak of mold that made Arthur cringed. As he took a hesitating step in, Eames crowded in right behind, body crouching low. Arthur did not even know why he bothered. Height-wise they were about the same, but in terms of girth, Eames was at least an arm span broader. Try as he might, it was near impossible for him to use Arthur as a full body shield. 

“Of all places, why is it always the toilet?” the producer grumbled, shifting close enough for Arthur to feel his radiating heat and to hear the stutter in his voice, words slurred together without pause, as if it was too cold to speak properly. 

The door to the last stall creaked, and Eames’ breath hitched. “Do you think... ” he whispered uneasily, letting the implied question drifted between them. 

There had been no breeze.

“It could have been the air pressure,” Arthur replied tersely. “You should check.” He stepped aside, clearing the path for Eames, whose initial look of incomprehension slowly gave way to a tight grimace as if he had just been asked to swallow a snake. 

“Wait just a minute,” he hissed. “Shouldn’t you go first.” 

“Can’t.”

“What do you mean by can’t?” His voice was barely a notch above whisper, and Arthur struggled to hear him. It was kind of ridiculous how Eames thought to lower his voice in the presence of a ghost, but pontificate freely in the presence of another living human. In Arthur’s experience, both human and ghosts eavesdrop when confronted with good gossips. 

“Let’s just say most spirits tend to flee once they notice me approaching.” Especially weaker ones, like the one he could sense hiding in that stall. 

Eames jaw slacked wide, and then closed, and then wide again. “I am not going first,” he said at last, lips curling down into a stubborn frown. Arthur brought a finger to his forehead then, pointedly signaling at the camera mounted around Eames’ head. “Don’t you want to do it for your audience? Give them the front row experience.”

That earned him a hard look. “Fuck the audience. As far as I’m concerned I would rather still be in that salt circle.”

That would not do, Arthur thought irritably. Barely ten minutes in, and they were stuck arguing. The day already felt too long, and frankly speaking, he would really like to go home sometime this week. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

“One month of rent,” he said, and Eames caught on quickly

“Three months.”

They stared assessingly at each other then.

“Actually I am under no obligations to let you - ” 

“One month!” Eames raised his hands immediately, effectively ending the negotiation. “But on one condition,” he grinned maniacally at Arthur. “You would agree to let me use your footage in this episode. Free-of-charge.” 

Knowing full well he had the better bargain, Eames did not wait for a response, brushing right past Arthur and stalking towards the last stall. However his steps did slow the closer he got, crawling along by the inches, until he was finally standing right outside the door. 

He raised a hand as if to knock, but then thinking better, paused, and turned to look at Arthur with a nervous lick to the corner of his lips.

Do it, Arthur mouthed impatiently, then for added measure, I’m with you.

That seemed to kind of strengthen Eames’ resolved. He gave a slight nod in Arthur’s direction, his hand trembled ever so slightly as a hesitating finger reached for the door. 

A slight press, the movement of muscle barely noticeable, and a long reverberating creak echoed.


	19. Eames

The air was chilly, and his nose itched with an urge to sneeze. Still he managed to hold it down, distracting himself as he traced the movement of that lone spider spinning its silvery web by the corner.

 _Eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three,_ he silently kept count.

The toilet wasn’t the best place to hide and the air was dank and stale from a whole day of use. But it was the furthest he could get. Last he saw Timmy, the red head was heading for the music room just a few doors down from where they’d start, which was stupid. Grey might not be all that bright, but they had been playing these games for how many times now? _Ten?_ An absent moment passed before he came back to himself. _Ninety, ninety-one…_ That was close. He’d almost lost track.

Point was, Grey may never get smarter, still, he was getting better at sniffing them out. Being far, far away meant a lesser chance of getting caught. He wouldn’t make it here so quickly, especially with that limp of his.

There was the sound of an opening door, and he froze. That ain’t right, the count hadn’t even been past ninety-five and Grey never cheat. Perhaps a senior? That was far likelier. Anyway, if someone needs the toilet, there were five other stall before his. Why would anyone skip five empty stalls for the last unless he’s playing the bogeyman.

A creak, soft footsteps. Then a second creak.

 

creak.

 

creAK.

 

cREAKK.

 

CREEAAKKKK….

He looked up right then, the door of his stall swung open slowly. There was someone standing right outside, an adult, face partially obscured by the shadows casted from the reddish orange of a setting sun.

“Time to leave, kid.” The voice was surprisingly pleasant and for a brief moment, he thought he had heard it somewhere before. Somewhere like home.

“School’s over.”

_Arthur._

Eames gasped for air, breathing and then choking from the sudden rush. He imagined this must be what resuscitation felt like, to have all your senses tuned back to awareness all at once. His knees wobbled, but Arthur had him grabbed by the collar, while another hand steadied him by his arm.

“Stand,” he said. “ You wouldn’t want to sit on the ground here.”

“What was that?” Eames croaked. He could swear that just moments ago, there was someone else in his head.

“Another possession. This is becoming a bad habit.”

“You blaming this on me? You were the one who sent me in as bait,” Eames protested. He didn’t remember anything of the first possession, but this time felt distinctively different, if he were to close his eyes, he could almost recall their names and faces - Timmy, Grey… _Urgh!_

His mind felt all weird now. Grimy. Tainted. One month’s worth of rent wasn’t worth this type of violation, but the footage, the footage was good he reminded himself. Arthur would bring him all the audience he needed. “Tell me at least that you got him?”

“Who do you take me for,” was the cocky reply as Arthur showed him a paper doll carefully held between his fingers. Eames held his breath, but the doll stayed still, looking exactly the same as before, or almost. Somehow, it felt as if the doll might blink if he were to stare at it longer.

“Are you sure you got him?” he asked queasily as he watched Arthur tucked it away into the pouch. “I still feel weird though. Like I could still feel something inside of me. Wait. That came out wrong - ”

But Arthur had him by the chin, holding him still and staring right in his eyes like a physician assessing his patient. “Might be miasma,” he murmured as Eames' eyes narrowed.

“Did you say miasma?”

“Dead spirits emanate negative vibes. Some might have got on to you from the earlier possession. Just think of it as some sort of temporary contamination of your soul.”

“My soul is what? ” Did he just hear the word ‘contamination’?

“It’s not a serious condition, just give it some time and rest - ”

“Wait a minute right there,” Eames said grabbing Arthur by the shoulders. “I feel sick, like seriously sick, the about to throw up kind of sick. Can’t you do anything? Anything at all?”

It wasn’t just the bad aftertaste of having played host to this weird set of thoughts and memories that were not his own, there was this nauseating, unsettling roiling in his guts which he wanted gone.

Arthur paused, peering at Eames’ face, which was undoubtedly as greenish as he felt. “My cigarettes may help.”

Eames hadn’t smoke since he’d learn how smoking could cause ED, but if a smoke could wash away this negative contamination thing, he’d take the chance. “Fine, I’ll take one.”

“You can’t,” Arthur’s refusal wasn’t entirely unexpected, for all that he earned, Arthur could be surprisingly nitpicky when it comes to money.

“Don’t be stingy, it’s just one - ”

“You will die if you smoke it.”

“Smoking kills? Funny how that’s coming from you. You smoke like - ”

“My cigarettes are special.”

“Special as in, handmade in Cuba kind of special - “

There was a long suffering sigh then as Arthur rolled his eyes and muttered, “fine.” When he retrieved his cigarette case from his jacket, Eames knew he had won.

He handed a small packet of matches to Eames with a pointed look, his message clear - _Light the match._ Fine, a little labor in exchange for a free special cigarette, Eames could accept that. But why did it have to be matches, they were tiny for his hands, and he fumbled with it, all while silently cursing Arthur for not using a lighter like any other normal person.

When the match was finally struck with its flame burning brightly, Eames looked up then to see Arthur, cases now securely tucked away, and a cigarette between his lips.

_Huh?_

Before he had the time to react, Arthur had already clasped his hand around Eames’ and brought the flame up close to light his cigarette with practiced ease. As he took in a satisfying puff, Eames could see the tension melting away from his face, making him looked more his age than who he pretended to be. It was kind of unfair really, how -

“Ouch!” he dropped the match reflexively, it fizzled, burning out even before hitting the ground. Or at least that was what Eames thought happened when he had the time to reminisce. He didn’t think he saw it land.

That moment of memory had been particular fuzzy on the details.

He did recall though, a forceful tug around his neck, as he was pulled by the collar. He recalled Arthur’s face drawing so near, that he could almost count the number of eyelashes framing those dark eyes of his now shut. He remembered feeling like his world tilting, and rearranging into a strange dimension, as vanilla and cinnamon filled his lungs.

“Feel better?”

Eames wasn’t sure what the question was. He couldn’t really think clearly right now.

“Another?”

Another of what? Arthur must have took his lack of response as some kind of agreement. He sucked in another breath of smoke with a little hum. This time when he drew near, Eames' eyes fell close, savoring the sweet familiar scent. He thought about that purported clip captured earlier and he wondered if it looked as intimate as it had felt.

When he blinked his eyes open, Arthur was frowning at him assessingly, professionally even, as he checked his condition.

The nausea was definitely gone, but Eames felt faint for an entirely different reason.

Oh god.  



End file.
